What are you looking for?

I’m afraid of you. And I hate to admit it. I was just talking about this concept earlier today. I’ve been teaching each Sunday morning for the past (nearly) four years within the church we started in that course of time. And some people from our church community and I were discussing that, in those early days of the first year, there was a boldness and confidence (authority, even?) in what I would say compared to today. Today is much different. Over the past few months, I’ve begun to ask “Is everyone with me?” or “Are you tracking with this?” I’ve become leery of saying certain things in fear that someone might disagree, sorry to say, and uncomfortable in my own skin as someone called to speak truth to the culture around me. I hate this. I feel it as soon as I ask it on a Sunday – the inner feeling of self-doubt and the verbal asking for some sort of security or validation. I might as well just interrupt the sermon with, “Do you still like me? Please don’t turn me off! I’m still a good guy. Anyone?” I ran across a quote courtesy of Jeffrey Overstreet which I am including below which speaks to this and I immediately thought of my own insecurities and missing those days when I was a little less concerned about how I would come across and more concerned about the truth I needed to proclaim: “Catering to fears of being misunderstood leaves you dependent upon your audience. In the simplest yet most daring scenario, ideas are diluted to what you imagine your audience can imagine, leading to work that is condescending, arrogant, or both. Worse yet, you discard your own highest vision in the process.” – Art and Fear, by David Bayles and Ted Orland I think this is true no matter if you are a painter, songwriter, storyteller, speaker, plumber, musician, salesman or cubicle-ite. There’s something that dies within us the moment we begin to think in terms of palatability for the audience – from the art we create to our Christian witness. Something within my own spirit dies when I reduce truth to something the audience wants to hear. Something within our own creativity dies when we edit the story or the song for a radio structure or store placement. At the very least, I find it true for me. I need to forget any other audience and be true only to the greatest audience of one. At least, I think so. Right? Anyone with me?

Lost, oh how I love thee! Did you see last week’s episode? Wow, what a perfect example of why this show is the best thing on TV. Lost is actually the only reason I subscribe to a television service (I can’t get broadcast reception where I live.) I hadn’t paid for cable or bothered watching anything but movies for ages until one day a few years ago I rented and watched the first season of Lost. Hook, line and sinker. Gulp. Three years later it’s still reeling me in. One of my favorite things about it is that it represents a return to what had almost become a lost art: mise en scene. For those that didn’t go to film school that’s the term for the way the information within the frame conveys the story. Hitchcock and Welles were masters of this. Everything you see in the frame of a Hitchcock film is there for a reason. The stuffed bird on the wall, the medicine bottle on the nightstand, the dog barking in the background, it’s not random, it presents information about the story, the character, the scene. Modern cinema has largely lost this discipline. Lost has found it. The article on the newspaper is a clue. The reporter on the TV in the background is telling us something. The advertisement on that bus that just passed? It was an anagram. The show is brilliant and I can’t imagine what a blast it must be to write for it. Another thing that keeps me in love with it is that it dares to present philosophy on primetime TV and makes it intoxicating. Hume, Locke, Rousseau: for a lot of people these names don’t mean anything, but for those that recognize them, it’s magnificent. Faith vs. Science. Fate vs. Freewill. John Locke vs. Jack Shepard. This is great stuff and what’s best is that it’s done without muddying up the story. Character and Story are king here, not philosophy and agenda. So even if you don’t care a whit for the deeper issues, at least you won’t notice them getting in the way while you enjoy the ride. One last reason why everyone should watch Lost: Characters. The creators have never lost sight of the fact that without flawed, believable characters, the story doesn’t matter. There is a character here for everyone to love and everyone to hate, and the genius of it is that those characters are different for each viewer. Some people love Sawyer and hate Jack. Some hate Locke and love Jack. Some even loved Charlie (I did) while everyone loves to hate Ben. And Desmond, come on brotha, who couldn’t love Desmond! The call to Penny last week made me whimper and sniffle like a housewife with a Harlequin. So if you haven’t gotten on board the plane yet, do so.And for heaven’s sake, don’t start watching in the middle, you must, must, MUST begin with season one: episode one and watch it in order from the beginning.If you don’t, you’ll be confused, bored, and utterly and completely…lost. Yes, I know that was lame.

Tuesday night my wife and I watched American Idol on our DVR. We fast-forwarded full speed through the commercials and Ryan Seacrest’s Mary Poppins perfect delivery, and wondered aloud how all that fast motion might be re-wiring our brains. The performances ranged from forgettable to uber-cheesy to impressive, which seems about right with 20 people still left in the competition. Then, for the finale, seventeen year old David Archuleta of Utah walked out to sing the last verse and chorus of John Lennon’s Imagine. I did not expect to be moved. I watch American Idol, but I mock American Idol. We love Kelly Clarkson in our house, but we don’t take her seriously. And then, this unassuming and very normal, smiley young man asks me to imagine no possessions, doubting that I can. He’s 17, singing about the brotherhood of man, and I am weeping, gaping at the television. In the beautiful, Oscar winning animated film, Ratatouille, the climax of the film occurs as the uppity and aptly named food critic, Anton Ego, tastes Remy’s entree. Ego’s reaction to his first bite is the stuff of movie legend. The beauty of the moment was not that a rat could actually cook. The beauty of the moment was that food could do that to somebody. In Tuesday’s American Idol, the earlier contestants came out bouncing and shaking and strumming and belting. The band rocked, even if some of the songs and performances were lame. Then little Mr. Archuleta walked out to one band dude strumming one acoustic guitar. Maybe there were some keyboard pads that filled in as the song went along, but it was far and away the smallest song of the night. And it was by far the biggest. His voice captured my attention immediately. After the first phrase, Amy and I shared a glance that said, “??!?!?!” and after he finished singing with control and phrasing and maturity way beyond his years, and the judges agreed with our assessment, we rewound and watched that clip over and over. We were giddy, and tearful… stunned to feel so moved. You will hear the name David Archuleta again. I’m sure he will do some cheesy songs over the next few weeks, but I’m also certain that he will win. More importantly, I am pleased to be healed of a bit of ‘Ranton Ego’. For even in the glare of commercial juggernaut, American Idol, I am reminded that “a great artist can come from anywhere.”

I am unsettled today. Between the pauses in snowfall, briskly three-dimensional and aloof, I sense a strange lag inside my own skin. Just now, I feel foreign to my space in the world. I am weary of winter and the gray concoctions that inhabit seemingly every second. I find myself longing for more than just the temporal warmth and spring and rebirth of earth and its mavens. The snow is blowing parallel to the ground, north to south, and is as dense as I’ve ever seen in these southern United States. The only green color within my vantage point is the small cluster of longleaf pines across the avenue, now hosting small pockets of cold. I find myself longing for more than these slow, sublime, occasionally frustrating days I lead, longing toward peace and rest, longing away from here and now, away from encumbered toil and aimless labors. Just outside the coffee shop window, a man is digging at the ground, shoveling away mud and dirt from a trench. The paved concrete has been ripped away, surely the result of a busted water pipe, revealing long-hidden and compacted soil and a slow trickle of water. All the while snow floats about, coating the worker and his tools in a baptism of sorts. The pines collect it in their tendrils. It stockpiles atop cars. The earth tends to take such reckless actions. The world is, after all, subject to heaven from whence originates its own christening. Occasionally, I take notice of such occurrences of blessing being bestowed upon the most unlikely subjects. To see it inside a religious sanctuary is one thing altogether expected, but to witness it on the urban concrete of the city is quite another, rather unexpected and most welcome. Sun shimmering through the parted clouds, humanity wheeling and whirling about, the wet painting of falling snow and rain: all the Good and Remembering grace. I would wish to be settled, to be at peace with this skin I am given, to pause and recognize that my being foreign to this world is not necessarily all that terrible a thing. For however long I yearn for tomorrow, however deeply I long for rebirth, however fearful or comfortable I am with myself is, in some small measure, an entrenched and guttural hope that God continues to prepare a place at his festival table for the slow and peculiar creatures we are, and the blessings we both unknowingly bestow and undeservedly receive amid all our faith and lack thereof.

Isaiah 50:10-11, “Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.” “Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks, walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.” These verses are to believers, those who fear the Lord and obey the voice of God’s servant but who are currently walking in a dark place with no light. Trusting the nature of God and leaning, staying ourselves upon our God, is the way through. But we sometimes cut and run in those dark places. We warm ourselves by the fires of our own effort, thinking we’re going to find our way through by the works of our own hands. We think it through; we plan. We fool ourselves into thinking we’re doing the right thing. Abraham and Sarah used Hagar to produce Ishmael. Saul, thinking he knew better, disobeyed God’s command. Peter’s fleshly presumption, “I will never deny you,” resulted in his running away when the heat turned up; he warmed his hands at a unbelieving fire kindled by fleshly effort, and ultimately denied the Lord. “Walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled.” In other words, “If you’re not going to rely on Me, trust My nature, to be still and know that I am God, then go ahead and do it your way.” And again, Peter cutting and running when the legalists, “the men from James,” showed up. He tried to do things his way, and Paul was the man who stood on God’s Word. The result of this self-effort? Abraham’s sorrow in having to send Ishmael away. Saul losing the kingdom. David and Bathsheba losing their baby. Peter sobbing bitter tears at his own betrayal of Jesus, and, later, the public put-down of his hypocrisy by Paul in Galatians. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow. How many times have I laid down in sorrow because of trying to manipulate my circumstances, or things, or people, to produce the desired “blessed” life? The answer to all this sorrow and shame? In contrast, we have the fire kindled by Jesus in John 21:9. The wet, cold, betrayer Peter warming himself by Jesus’ fire, contrasting with his former denials by the fire of man’s approval. Jesus’ fire, a symbol of the Holy Spirit. Revelation. Love. Desire. Passion. “Heart of my own heart, whatever befall.” That’s the Fire we’re to rely on. An inner Fire kindled by God’s own hand. So instead of trusting our own ways, our own thoughts, our own puny sparks and fire, we trust God. We stay ourselves upon the Lord, relying on His Word, no matter what our thoughts, our emotions, our circumstances, our friends, our enemies, the devil, or the world tells us what to do. “Be still, and know that I am God.” In every situation we make a choice: Is God truthful and faithful and trustworthy? Or is He a liar, unfaithful, and not to be trusted? The fire of fleshly effort leads to sorrow. God’s fire leads to a fruitful life and “Well done, good and faithful servant.” “He that is not with me is against me.” It’s an either-or choice. There’s no in-between.

In Rainbows was it for me. The (over)hyped release of Radiohead’s latest masterpiece was so far beyond any other release I heard last year that I dubbed it #1 on the Top Ten I had to write for several publications. In fact, it wasn’t even close. It was numbers 2-9 that took me significant time to develop because Radiohead was such a no-brainer. But really there’s a great question to be asked: Why? All Music Guide suggests there are between 500-700 releases per month and that doesn’t include all the little guys who will never be known outside of their mom enjoying the new EP. And in that sea of music, Radiohead was by far the most celebrated release of last year by most media outlets. So again, the question is “Why?” Thom Yorke and company create music that definitely isn’t radio friendly, with hooks just out of reach and complexities that baffle at times. Yorke’s lyrics are hardly the stuff of love and life, so it’s not that everyone is relating to some great line. The guys really aren’t press hounds either, so it’s not as if they are thrust into the limelight all the time, reminding everyone of their greatness (although their freelease certainly had the lion’s share of music publicity for months). So it’s not lyrics. Not accessibility. Not radio overload. And not likeable, press-friendly personalities. What is it about this collection of songs that made everyone drop what they were doing and turn up the music? I’m not even going to attempt to answer at this point without some comments because I’m legitimately interested in hearing straight answers to the questions.

One sweet day I’m going to have a lot of friends who are literary agents and I’m going to make them send me specifically formatted letters every time they want to speak to me or ask to borrow my bundt pan. Of course I will then reply to said letters with an across the board answer of “Sorry, I’m almost in love with this idea but can’t quite commit. I’m sure someone else will adore it.” Can I just say that this weekend has been a perfect reinforcement of the title of this post? As I said I would in the last post, I tweaked a few things in my query letter until I was happy with it. Then I spent the last week or so doing another complete edit of the manuscript and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s much stronger for it.So today I sat down and started sending out some queries.You might venture to think this is easy. You’d be wrong.Every agent has their own foibles, each wanting things done just a little differently.The result is that each submission winds up being a long process of putting together a list of specific materials and arranging them just so in order not to be rejected outright by getting the format wrong.Some people want just the query, some want the query and the first ten pages, some want me to add a two-page synopsis to that, some a one page synopsis and a description of how I intend to promote the book, the list of possible combinations is endless. One even required me to submit my favorite sentence from the manuscript. Say what? I kid you not. Out of a hundred thousand words, each and every one of which is near and dear to my heart, this person requires me to choose my very favorites. Talk about an agonizing decision. Ugh. I hope I get to meet that particular agent one day. I will throttle her (unless of course she sells my book). By the time my mind was completely frazzled, I had sent out a whopping nine submissions. The first and third had already been rejected by the time the ninth was submitted. On the plus side, neither rejection was a form letter, though one did leave me with the distinct impression that she hadn’t read past the first sentence, so bizarre was her reply. For me the worst part of being rejected is looking at an agent’s list of sales. While they certainly have one or two that are good (or I wouldn’t be considering them), they also seem to have sold a glut of worthless dreck, often things as revolting as vampire romance novels or some tired old fantasy retread. I know this sort of stuff sells (though I do wonder to whom) and agents rely on hack writers to pay the bills but it’s just really painful to know that somewhere out there is a book about an angst-ridden urban vampire and his emo girlfriend that got picked over mine. I imagine it’s the exact same feeling the musicians here at the Rabbit Room get every time they hear a Britney Spears song. Oh joy, just got another rejection as I was writing that last paragraph. I intend to do at least a few submissions every day this week. We’ll see how it goes.

“I think writers with actual intentions generally end up saying things they already thought they knew, and I’m not much interested in reducing my vocation as a poet to something like propagandist. I write poems to find things out, not to communicate some previously ossified conclusion.” -poet Scott Cairns in an interview with Image Most of my recent posts have to do with various things we can wrestle with as artists and creators. I ran across this quote from Cairns and it evoked a puzzled response more than anything. I can read his quote and think, “Absolutely! Screw propaganda and allow the creativity to flow.” He makes the journey sound beautiful, and yet… I feel like many musicians and writers do have that intent in mind. They do have something specific to communicate and the end goal already figured out. And I’m sure sometimes they might deviate from that – as they get going, they realize their creativity is a forceful river unto itself, eroding the banks and rushing over land into a new path. But I know that others begin and end with the same conclusion, starting with The End in mind and moving there without distraction. And I still feel like it’s good art. Am I mistaken? Of course, Scott Cairns is not infallible so perhaps that’s not a blanket statement he made. But what is the tension? What is proper goal-setting for the artist and what is too much predetermination? I’d love to hear from both the artist and the patron on this, because I feel like, as a patron of much, that I can sniff out the rat of propaganda and I hate it. Then again, I can recognize the tension of needing to go somewhere as well. So have you wrestled with this before? Where did you end up? Did you err on one side or the other?

“You can say it’s my job to fight [evil] but I don’t know what it is anymore. More than that, I don’t want to know. A man would have to put his soul at hazard. He would have to say, okay, I’ll be part of this world.” So muses Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) in the opening of No Country for Old Men. I saw the film a week ago and I still can’t stop thinking about it. It does little for me to say that it’s a good movie–anyone knows that by now–but it’s the type of film that divides people and provokes differing interpretations and I thought I’d share some of my thoughts. I’m not going to dance around spoilers here. If you haven’t seen it or don’t want anything spoiled, you might want to skip this post. Clearly, the film is interested in the nature of evil and interesting to me is that the evil presented in the character of Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) isn’t insane, senseless, or random. It is disciplined, calculated, almost moral. Anton is nearly incapable of acting without purpose; if he kills someone it is, to him, necessary. And when his reasons aren’t clear to him, the device of the coin toss relieves him of having to make his own choice. He is only able to do the things he does because he has an inner set of guidelines that not only direct him but allow him to avoid responsibility for his actions and maintain a clear conscience. The scene near the end when he confronts Mrs. Moss is the only time in the film he shows anger, and it’s because she refuses to call the coin toss, refuses to let him place responsibility anywhere other than himself. And having broken his own moral code by killing her, what goes around finally begins to come around when he’s hit by the car. What is so disturbing about this depiction of evil is that we often comfort ourselves by thinking that evil is dumb or random, when the truth is that evil knows exactly what it’s doing, evil thinks it is righteousness, and evil has been getting away with it for far longer than we’ve been around to figure it out. It’s scary to realize that we might not be the ones that are a step ahead. As Tommy Lee Jones’s character says, trying to understand the evil that’s out there will put your ‘soul at hazard’. Confronting evil, trying to get in its head and master it is dangerous and a man might not come out the winner, not in this life and perhaps not in the next. This brings me to the hotly debated ending of the movie. Jones’s character, speaking to his wife, tells of a dream in which he and his father are riding horseback through the mountains at night “like in old times” and his father has lit a flame in a horn and rides off ahead of him into the darkness to ready a fire and wait for him. “And then I woke up,” says Jones’s character, and the film cuts to black, it’s over, and we’re the ones in the darkness. After a week of mulling over that ending, I still love it, I think it’s perfect, but I still wonder exactly what it means. Is it hopeful, or hopelessly bleak? I tend to think that somewhere out in all the dark of the world, my Father is preparing a fire and waiting for me gather myself out of the night and rest. The central question of the film is this, I think. Is that fire a dream from which we must all wake, or a prophecy in which we find hope? No matter which way you interpret that, it is a brilliant question to ponder as you leave a theater. I think for the first time in quite a few years, I actually care who wins the Best Picture Oscar. After finally having seen all the contenders, I think only No Country for Old Men and Michael Clayton are left in the ring and of those two, No Country for Old Men is the one that is a movie for the ages. Film students will still be studying this one when we’re all old men. I’d love to read some other peoples’ thoughts.

Through a glorious but all too brief break in the typical winter weather pattern here in middle Tennessee, I took my family to the Nashville Zoo yesterday. Sunny skies, temperatures a balmy 60-degrees, we loaded up the car, and after eating lunch at McDonald’s (I’m just now beginning to understand the “beauty” of eating at Micky D’s with children), we finally made it to the zoo parking lot, and thereupon quickly discovered that apparently many other folks in Nashville had reached the very same conclusion: get outdoors while the rain and cold are temporarily departed. Winter will soon be back upon us. False springs are so cruel. My wife purchased a zoo family pass late last summer, and though I questioned the expense at the time, I now see as a stroke of genius on her part. She is usually right in these matters. I am usually a tightwad. While we ambled the paved grounds, pushing Ellis along in his stroller, I found myself more an observer of other people than zoo animals. I noticed folks peering and walking along in their own curious ways, all as different as can be, with cameras in hand, some talking obliviously on their phones, most of them shepherding their own children through the zoological menagerie, and not one of us looking or acting exactly alike, yet all of us bearing some strange and imprecise resemblance to one another. As I paused at the elephant and giraffe exhibits, these tall creatures with their thick, long and spotted necks, tails and ears whisking away flies and other insect annoyances, their trunks groping the ground in search of food, slurping water and filling their mouths for drink and occasional play, I watched these massive animals carry on in their slow gaits, every so often taking a moment to gawk at the much smaller, non-naked beings staring back at them from the site of our safety. It is easy to reside in safety. I wondered how we must appear, if we indeed appear at all – if their brains can reckon and figure such sights – to these captive animals. I marveled at their size, how very large, oblique, intricate and stunning their muscles, how impressive their feet, how casual their actions. Their movement along the trampled ground, the motion of their limbs, their sheer volume caused me recollections of my childhood, when facing such enormity, my brain tingled and lay prostrate at such gigantic traits. It is, I should hope, a natural thing to inhale such awe at the world’s wonders, whether natural or unnatural. I somehow manage to forget just how big certain things are in real life, how vast the world is, how valid it is to actually be living and breathing alongside the rest of earth and its astronomically numbered inhabitants, all told enormous and microscopic. As humans, we must certainly appear both gigantic and minute in relation to other creatures. And yet we are given dominion over them — a great price and a great responsibility. This is not intended to be a treatise on environmental conservation or animal husbandry nor is it a plea to spare the globe from man’s involvement and interaction. Hardly. I am merely marveling – in my own mind, insofar as I can tell – the great and Providential difference that we all are. We roam the territories of our lives, or in this case the grounds of a zoo, and even a blind man in his sightlessness can plainly see that we are all so immensely varied in appearance (amen), culture and action. We are indeed peculiar treasures. It seems appropriate, not to mention ironic, that all of this is brought to my attention while at the zoo, that fenced-in plot of city land where animals of all species, variegations and coloration are separated from man, woman and child by chain-link fence or a puddle of moat water, where the cackle of long-armed gibbons intermixes with the cackle of awed and bored children, where the odor of zoo life attends the meeting and confluence of the opposably-thumbed, stamp-footed, cloven-hoofed, winged and rationally-thinking. Sometimes I wonder which creature is more prone to and capable of the latter. Whether or not you believe the earth, along with all its surplus and supplies, was made in 6 business days, or if you conclude that Evolution – or Creationism, for that matter – is for weaklings, or even if God is a part of any, all or none of the ongoing terra-activities, we are just as bound to marvel at all the differences as we are the similarities, to the skink as to the mighty lion, to the Gentile as to the Jew. Myself, I find comfort in hearing that all of earth – its boundless waters, solid ground, endless azure skies, kingdom of creatures – is not only something to be marveled at, but is likewise marvelous in its inherent Goodness, the everlasting, unbound, permanent meaning of the word, and the fact that no two human beings throughout all of time, on all the plains of earth are exactly alike is nearly unfathomable. It is good to marvel.

Good, beautiful and true. Those are the three words the interview subject told me, the interviewer, were the standards for meaningful art. Those are the words that he used to measure art and its value. Of course, his explanation flowed with eloquence and brilliance and I found the entire discussion stimulating. And those terms are obviously subjective, but they give us some sort of guidelines for measurement, which is needed, right? Erik ended up saying this in the interview: “The good, the true, and beautiful, properly defined and practiced, contain everything that I want in art and creativity. What other words could be added? Excellence? Maybe. Substance? Possibly. But those words, to me, are already woven deep into the richness of goodness, truth, and beauty. Nothing else is needed. My prayer is that artists study those words, brood over them, wrestle with them like Jacob.” I think I agree. At least with the idea of starting with a few words. Perhaps I would choose excellence. But there are other questions than this: Is it even necessary to have words for measuring art’s value/meaning? If so, what words are proper to use? How does one determine what is good, beautiful or true?

In most churches there’s a lot of “Lord, come down and bless us with your presence” rather than taking Jesus at His word: “Where two or more are gathered in My name, there am I in the midst of them.” Fact. So prayer is largely meant to be thanksgiving and praise for what is (even if it doesn’t appear as an “is“) because God said it is so. Thank You, Lord, that I am loved and accepted. Thank You that by one sacrifice I am made perfect forever, and that You are working that Perfection out into my daily life. Thank You, Lord, that You work all things, not “some things,” after the counsel of Your own Will. We don’t have to ask God to act as much as we thank Him for Reality; His stated Word is reality in its purest form. We can ask Him to manifest that unseen Reality by faith into the seen realm. But we don’t question its ‘is-ness’. We take it by faith. The thing IS. I AM holy, even if I feel unholy. I AM forgiven, even if I feel unforgivable. I AM one Spirit with the Lord, even if I seem separated from Him. So – I’m blood-bought. Blood-washed. A king. An heir of salvation. A son. A partaker of the divine nature. Complete in Christ, having everything I need for both life and godliness – needing nothing outer, not approval, acceptance, good circumstances, money, anything. Everything is contained right here within this human cup, this human zero, and God is the Wine, the All, inside this cup. And He and I are one – a marriage union. When I rely on these truths of what IS, God acts by me. When I go back to the Romans 7 paradigm and live from that, Satan gets his arrows in me, with their strings attached, and uses me like a marionette by pulling those strings. A return to Romans 8, trusting the Spirit within me and thanking God for the Blood that cleanses me of all sin, kicks the Devil in the teeth and confounds him. We’re meant to live in Romans 8 and 9, not 7. Many churches teach 7 is the constant state of the Christian. What a defeatist mentality! The sum-total of our Christian lives down here: “Try to do the best you can.” Yuck. The JWs believe that same thing. I’ve told them, “You live in 7!?” They said, “Yes. 8 is for the Elect.” (meaning the 144,000). I said, “I can’t LIVE there anymore! I hate living there. I live in Romans 8 and 9 most of the time now.” Because 8-9 is the life of faith in God’s stated Facts – and by faith in those Facts, He begins to manifest them into our seen world. Romans 7 is life by our own effort, by our own works, by our own ‘trying to be like Jesus.’ And the outcome is “The things I want to do, I’m not doing, and the things I hate, that’s what I keep doing.” Being controlled by the flesh – feelings, thoughts, desires of the flesh – is really being controlled by the Devil. What believer in his right mind would want to stay there? So – we concentrate on the IS-ness of God’s reality. That’s what we grab onto, and after grabbing on we’re like a pit bull – we don’t let go for any reason. That’s the endurance of faith. Patience. By faith and patience we inherit the promises – not “up there” or “pie-in-the-sky,” but here and now in this temporal realm. And so we are privileged to pull the unseen realities down into this seen world into visible manifestation. That’s the essential paradigm of the Christian life. It undergirds all revelation. It is the foundation of our interaction with God, because trust is the foundation of relationship.

It’s a little sad, but I’ve had to learn to selectively muffle my enthusiasm with family and friends when it comes to music and movies that move me. Sometimes I fear I’m pushing too hard. Sometimes I wonder, am I sharing from a pure heart or from some latent competitive intention bubbling beneath the surface like a volcano ready to erupt? Sometimes I expect my audience to get it–see what I see–without prompting. More than once, I’ve felt quietly and maybe self-righteously indignant when they don’t. Sometimes I fear I push the art with what might seem like a salesman offering faux Rolexes from the lining of his coat. The harder he pushes, the more human nature wonders, “What’s wrong with him?,” or “What’s wrong with his message?” I have a friend that reacted a little too casually to the music of Andrew Peterson when I first introduced it to him. So I none-too-subtly sent him each new Andrew Peterson CD after Carried Along as it was released. Fast forward to years later as I played Love and Thunder on our drive from Chicago to Milwaukee last summer: I silently celebrated as he sang–word for word–every song on the CD. I won! Indeed, it felt like victory, yet there was this annoying little itch that I sensed the urge to scratch, that felt something like–conviction. As I reach to insert my latest and greatest CD purchase into the slot, how many times have my wife or son said, “How bout’ let’s talk? Do you mind leaving the music off for awhile?” The movie Saved features a scene in which Hilary Faye throws a Bible at Mary, saying, “I am FILLED with Christ’s love! You’re just jealous of my success in the Lord!” Mary, picking up and holding the Bible, replies, “This is not a weapon! You idiot.” As I proofread music or movie reviews I’ve written, I sometimes sense an insistent tone, as if the reader must capitulate to my wonderful words. “If you don’t love this CD, you must be an idiot,” or so I might as well say. Eric Peters has a revealing slice of wisdom in a line from the song “Bus 152”: But demands don’t bring penance like I thought they would.  Of course, I’m too smooth to make any of this overt, to say it out loud, but I am not the Holy Spirit. There’s something so incredibly satisfying about serving your family and friends a perfectly cooked meal. And nothing says perfectly cooked like sweet and tender meat the just falls right off the bone, full of delicious smokey flavor. A great kamado grill such as one of these best kamado grills can get you that. The post is helpful in directing you towards the best kamado grill for your particular needs. We’ve looked at a big variety of grills, made from different materials and of various sizes, some with stands, others stand-alone, and in a range of prices. It’s my hope that you found what you need. The Spirit will move in His time, not at the beck and call of this silver tongued devil. If somebody needs to be convicted of a thing, or follow a particular path, it’s not my place to find just the right track that will put them in their place, the right movie that will bring them to their knees, a song that will make them cry tears of contrition. The above thoughts occurred to me (once again) after reading wise words from Ron Block and Andrew Peterson in the thread, “A Stream Across the Path.” AP wrote: The relationship that you have with Jesus, the intimate nature of your connection with him, is not exactly the same as mine. You have things to teach me about the mind of Christ, insights into his Word that I cannot see on my own. There are things about him that may be very clear to you that have never crossed my mind. His Spirit lives in you, and it lives in me, and we are not the same. Ron Block wrote: If I could change one thing about my past it would be that I would much earlier have realized that I can learn something from nearly everybody if I have the right mindset – a humble one. Pride is the most insidious of sins. It stealthily wraps itself up in the midst of good intentions and honorable work. The same God who inspires us to share beauty and truth with another soul is the same God that stands waiting to temper our words and intentions with love–and extinguish any residue of selfish gain. In The Big Kahuna, Danny DeVito’s character Phil Cooper says, “It doesn’t matter whether you’re selling Jesus or Buddha or civil rights or ‘How to Make Money in Real Estate With No Money Down.’ That doesn’t make you a human being; it makes you a marketing rep. If you want to talk to somebody honestly, as a human being, ask him about his kids. Find out what his dreams are – just to find out, for no other reason. Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it’s not a conversation anymore; it’s a pitch. And you’re not a human being; you’re a marketing rep.”

“Be regular and orderly in your life so that you may be violent and original in your work.” Gustave Flaubert I just read this quote and was quite taken by it simply for its right-on-ness. The writer side of me has endless ideas for books, articles, essays and even blog posts forever lost, aborted by a lack of time and/or remembrance. Fictional plots and non-fictional rants are constantly lost due to my lack of organization. Distraction kills small bits of life that attempt to grow during the few times I actually focus. It’s frustrating to have a tool so wonderful as my laptop (I’m totally a Mac geek and look down condescendingly on any bulky PC user in my local coffee shop) and yet lose productivity due to the ease of access to email, etc. And I am finding that I need to be obsessively organized and focused, setting silly rules for myself so that I don’t waste the time/day away. Does anyone else deal with this? Do you find that quote to be true? As a site full of both artists and patrons, I would think this would be a timely topic. And if you do find it to be true, what do you do to combat it? Artists are generally horrible at administration, so how do you conquer your poor habits to generate the art that good discipline can breed?

I was reading through the responses to the Sigur Ros video and decided to grab a line or two from each one. It’s remarkable to me how varied the reactions were to this piece, and it’s taught me something about the way we all approach art differently. I’ve so often been exasperated by the lack of widespread success of some artists, wondering why more people don’t rush out and buy this or that songwriter’s albums when the music is so clearly powerful and emotive. But then I see the responses to this video and I’m reminded of the almost mystical nature of art and imagination. God has created music, words, visual art to carry a kind of spiritual power. They speak to us in ways that can be as profound as anything we might come across in this world, much like magic beckons and guides in fairy stories. Have you ever been stopped in your tracks by a lyric in a song, maybe even one you’ve heard a thousand times? Frederick Buechner says that the moments when tears spring unexpectedly are the times when you’re brushing up against the eternal. Those are the times when you’d better stop and take note. Pay attention. Write it down so you’ll remember that moment when your heart grew softer. Remember, because this is something that can actually happen, even to us. But we’re all on the journey, aren’t we? Some of us are in the valley, others on the side of a hill with a long view of the country ahead or behind. George MacDonald described Jesus’ parables as springs that ran across the path rather than beside it; they’re bubbling with life, but we might not drink of it until we reach that part of the journey when we’re able to understand it. Or, we’ll understand it differently when we’re farther along. This has been true for me. I grew up with the Scriptures and am still largely baffled by them. But when those moments come in my journey when the pieces click into place and I get that long, cool drink of water from something Jesus said, I’m reminded of MacDonald’s wise words. I learn that there’s nothing wrong with mystery. I learn that my heart is finding its way. The Spirit-wind blows where it will, sometimes howling out of the imagery of a group of brave children leaving their old lives behind and charging up the mountain with a mighty roar, leaping into the great wide freedom of their faith’s reward. ————— It’s important to realize that a difference in reaction to a piece of art does not your maturity define. Not to keep harping on MacDonald, but I’ve found great comfort in something he said about what he called “the secret chamber in the heart of God.” He said that God has reserved for each of us a unique chamber in himself into which only we may enter. The relationship that you have with Jesus, the intimate nature of your connection with him, is not exactly the same as mine. You have things to teach me about the mind of Christ, insights into his Word that I cannot see on my own. There are things about him that may be very clear to you that have never crossed my mind. His Spirit lives in you, and it lives in me, and we are not the same. Someone asked the late Mike Yaconelli what it meant to be “spiritual.” He said that “being spiritual is nothing more than paying attention.” People have asked me about songwriting and that’s the pat answer I give them: keep your eyes open. Look for meaning, because the world is fraught with it. If you believe that behind (and beyond) the veil of this world is a Creator who knit us together, cast us into history, and gave us the gift of his presence–a living wind that is as much God as Jesus is, living within us–then life is no longer meaningless, but infinitely sacred. I don’t mean that we should superstitiously look for answers in places where we shouldn’t, like studying tea leaves or lines on your palm, but that we should look deeper and see the thing for what it is: tea leaves make tea–why should that be so? Because God filled this world with good things (especially good if the tea is sweet and iced, and you’ve just finished mowing your lawn). Look at the lines on your palm. There’s no answer to your employment or relational dilemma there, but if you look closely you’ll see calluses, maybe scars that tell part of your story; you’ll see that you’re unique, or maybe you’ll notice what a profoundly useful contraption a hand is–and placed just so, at the end of your arm, where it can hold a hammer and nail to build house or a music box, where it can press the strings of the guitar in a way that just might make someone’s heart leap in their chest when they hear the song, where it can feel the smooth skin of your baby’s back or turn the last page of the book so you can find out what happens in the end. We must learn to see. And if we don’t see, we must learn to try. Now, I don’t mean that there’s something wrong with you if the Sigur Ros video didn’t float your boat, goodness knows. That would be silly and elitist. There were lyrics in last week’s song comments that didn’t move me one bit, and that’s fine too. To change MacDonald’s water analogy a bit, artists are digging wells and diverting the water to make streams that cross the path. Our hope is that people on the journey will stop and drink and taste something eternal. Maybe this video was a stream you haven’t reached yet–or maybe it was a few miles back and you’re hungry for something deeper. (Of course, there’s only one place to find living water, and he is the source of all joy and meaning and grace. The above analogy only goes so far.) Here’s a compendium of the responses to this stream on the path, which will hopefully help us to appreciate the diversity of our experience and the power of resonance. When the artist touches the pulse of someone, something beautiful happens. For those of you who “didn’t get it”, I’d be interested to hear some examples of when you felt your heart leap from a piece of art or writing or music. “For me, since I dedicated 6 years of my life in college and grad school to studying saxophone and jazz I may be moved by a John Coltrane solo in a much deeper way than someone who never listens to jazz and finds it to be a bunch of noise.” “I guess my overriding feeling from the piece was its pure joy.” “I think that each of us see pieces of Heaven in little things, not all of us in the same things. We see these little glimpses and whispers of Heaven that are perfect bits of promise of what God has for us.” “So in my mind I was wondering why they were alone, where they were going to, coming from, orphans, and really thought tragedy was coming when they charged the hill and it turned into a cliff . . . I admit I’m jaded.” “I think this is a neat video. But that’s it.” “My favorite bit (apart from the wonderful diversity of the “follow me” calling scenes) is when they start to run, casting aside every encumbrance in their single-minded pursuit of the goal.” “I kept waiting for something profound so maybe that was what my problem was. But i didn’t think it was emotional in the least.” “…it still rings true, and I think that’s because it’s calling to the part of me that believes in something more. Not just the child in me. The hope in me.” “Each image holds meaning. It’s worth it to watch this several times to lasso further meaning.” “…and yes, it makes me cry too — when he starts beating the drum and they all charge the mountain in unison…. Whew.” “Wow. Beautiful. I’m not sure all it’s about but I have about a million ideas.” “I guess I’m with the minority as I didn’t get the song and video.” “There is something undeniably powerful about the innocence and the freedom of childhood.” “I’m not sure I get it. The song is good, and it works well with the imagery, which I sort of feel on some visceral level that I can’t quite articulate…” “Yeah, I didn’t get any kind of emotional charge out of this either.” “The world would be a dull place if the same poets moved every soul.” “I think for me it is the unbridled joy that the kids seem to display, all walking and running together for one purpose. This will preach!” “I cannot tell you how much I love this video, this song, and this band.” “Yeah, that’s some powerful stuff. Very cool.” “I won’t go into detail of the numerous hymn lyrics and scripture than flashed to mind during subsequent scenes, but I will say that I had to try and cover my tears in the manliest of ways.”

“The seed is the word of God. Those by the wayside are they that hear; then cometh the devil, and taketh away the word out of their hearts, lest they should believe and be saved.” Luke 8:11 “…the word preached did not profit them, not being mixed with faith in them that heard it.” Heb 4:2 If we don’t adhere to God’s stated facts, God’s right seeing of reality, it doesn’t matter how much we read about it. It won’t help us or change us one bit, and what was spoken of the Hebrews in the wilderness will be spoken of us: “The word preached did not profit them, not being mixed with faith in them that heard it.” To mix the Word with faith means to personally appropriate it – to read the promises and take hold of them. God wants a living, breathing faith-relationship with each one of us. We can turn from that, even as believers, and live for the rest of our days at a sub-Christian level; we can wander in the wilderness because we’re not ready to believe we can take the promised land and drive out the inhabitants. “No way. There’s giants there. I’m unloved. I’m not worthy. I’m too insecure. I’m so lustful. I’m not as talented as other people. I have such a temper.” We can go on believing that the gospel is fire insurance and “Jesus died to pay my sin-debt so I could go to heaven when I die,” and miss the real fact that God wants us to co-operate with Him in making our lives a fitting Home for the Creator of the universe; we can refuse His divine objective to make us into living manifestations of His Holy Spirit in the here-and-now. By one sacrifice He has made perfect forever those who are being made holy. Divine impartation of perfection. Bang! We have it. Now – we can refuse to work it out by faith into our daily life because we don’t believe in God’s love or power in us. We can choose legalism – our own human effort trying to ‘be like Christ’; we can choose licentiousness. Both are a lie. Or we can take God at His Word: “But that on the good ground are they, which in an honest and good heart, having heard the word, keep it, and bring forth fruit with patience.” Luke 8:15 “He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief, but was strong in faith, giving glory to God.” Romans 4:20 Caleb, in the face of the contradictory report of the other spies, said, “Let us go up and possess the land, for we are well able to overcome it.” He knew God’s promise. He saw the circumstance. And he mixed the Word with faith; he relied on God’s stated Fact more than what he saw, what he felt, what other people said. Good ground is a hearing heart – a heart that not only hears with its ears, but ruminates and chews and digests what it has heard, and mixes that heard word with faith – reliance – trust – abiding – resting. “There remaineth, therefore, a rest to the people of God. For he that is entered into His rest, he also hath ceased from his own works, as God did from His. Let us labour therefore to enter into that rest, lest any man fall after the same example of unbelief.” Heb 4:9-11 As we labor to enter His rest – a faith-labor, not a works trip – we begin cease from our own works. Our own ways of coping with life. Our manipulations. Our patting ourselves on the back and, as Lewis put it, “Aren’t I a good boy!” We cease from trying to figure life out and do it on our own level and in our own strength; we die to having any concept of our own motive power, we see our total weakness and inability, and in that weakness we begin to find true strength. Rest. Power. And that Power pours through us in our daily abiding – which is just another word for “faith.” “I am the Vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.” John 15:5 Apart from Christ living in us, through us, apart from faith-abiding, apart from resting in His perfection in us and drawing on those limitless resources, we can do no thing. No eternal good is possible in our own strength; in the end all such effort works, even those apparently good, will be burned up. When we abide, rest, trust in the indwelling power of Christ as our patience in stress, our peace in anxiety, our strength in weakness, God’s supernatural power flows through that faith-connection. He changes our thinking, our attitudes, our actions. Faith begins to work, and the works are not “the works of our hands” but the works of God’s heart. Life change happens when we trust. “For this cause also we thank God without ceasing, because,when ye received the word of God which ye heard of us, ye received it not as the word of men, but as it is in truth, the word of God, which effectually worketh also in you that believe.” 1Thess 2:13 Amp: “…exercising its [superhuman] power in those who adhere to and trust in and rely on it.” What situations are we in where we need to trust God? Relationships? Job security? Financial problems? Fears? Doubts? The answer to every situation is in the Word of God. That’s what Christianity is all about. An indwelling Power. Reliance on that Power. And the result is rivers of living water begin to flow from our inmost being, out into the lives of others. So – we choose. Every day. If I’m in financial trouble: “Malachi says if I give, God will open the windows of heaven and pour out a blessing so big I cannot contain it.” “Jesus said to consider the sparrows, the lilies. He said if I seek God first and His righteousness, necessities would be given to me as well. I’m trusting that.” So we make our faith-stand, and when it is assaulted, we stand on the committal of faith. Or – we can live in fear. If I’m struggling with inner junk from my childhood: “God says I am a new creation, that old things have passed away, and the new has come. He says I am dead to sin, and dead to the Law; I don’t have to strive in effort anymore to please God. What pleases Him is faith. So I’m going to trust Him, open my heart up to Him, and ask Him to do whatever He wants to do in my life, because God is love.” And so we submit to God and ask Him to work His will in our lives no matter what the cost. Or – we can live with the inner grave clothes carried over from childhood, and not cast them off in faith. The possibilities are endless when we consider the promises of God. Is He truthful, is it true that He “cannot lie,” or is He a liar? We choose. Faith is the crux, the switch of the Christian life. Everything else flows through that.

After seeing some of these responses, I’ve decided to edit my approach and see what you think of the video objectively. Like I said, the band is Sigur Ros, and the song is called “Glosoli.” Enjoy. Or not. https://youtube.com/watch?v=okLCurB1lJw

Mother knows best. As a narrow-minded teen-ager, I jostled with my mom over the radio dial. If it was country, I didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to be associated with it. With a friend in the car, I protested even more vigorously. At the first sign of a musical drawl from Merle Haggard or George Jones, I reached for the dial, in one motion hoping to change the station and avoid my mother’s semi-playful hand slap. With a knowing smile, she always told me, “Someday you’re going to like this music.” Mother’s intuition gave her the vision to see right through me. As a matter of fact, a few years later, I was hired as the evening disc jockey for Great Country Stereo KSO in Des Moines, Iowa, playing country music for six hours every night. The thing is, I didn’t really change; at least that’s the logic I used in attempting to save face with mom. Verbally backpedaling, I tried to explain to her that the music embraced by the public and radio as country music is what changed. The late 70s and 80s brought an evolution in country music which sliced the western portion of country/western right off the radio dial, making it palatable to even my image conscious ears. Ironically, some of the artists played on my preferred Top 40 stations in the 70s were artists that were precursors–indeed pioneers–to country rock, country pop, and the modern version of what passes for country today. England Dan and John Ford Coley, The Eagles, Bellamy Brothers, Olivia Newton-John, John Denver, Pure Prairie League, Poco, Neil Young, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, The Marshall Tucker Band, The Ozark Mountain Daredevils, and Firefall are all examples of 70s and 80s country pop or country rock that today would carry the label country. When I started playing country music for public consumption, I embraced such artists as Steve Wariner, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Larry Gatlin, Emmylou Harris, Ronnie Milsap, Paul Overstreet, Dan Seals (of England Dan and John Ford Coley fame), and Don Williams, artists that had their formative roots planted firmly in folk, pop, or rock–or on some level–reflected that sound. With egg running down my face, I’m not sure mom bought my explanation–that such artists would have come close to fitting right in to the Top 40 music I favored back in the 70s, when music and program directors favored the song, not some overly homogenized sound. Diversity allowed for a country flavored song to make it on the playlist of Top 40 radio, as long as the artist didn’t have a history as a country artist. All this noted, because I’m about to recommend a project that must unavoidably and inevitably be classified as country. And if you shun the endorsement based on such a nebulous label, it would be a crying shame. No, Greg Adkins’s Chase the Western Sky doesn’t contain lyrical twists on trains, dogs, prison, momma, pick em’ up trucks or beer, but it’s country nonetheless. And it’s not only the kind of country I embrace, but the kind of country that worms its way into the cranny of my brain responsible for looping songs randomly: when waking, in the shower, at the mall, or at a basketball game. And unlike, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” “Who Let the Dogs Out,” “Achy Breaky Heart,” or “The Meow Mix jingle (Meow meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow…), these are songs I’m truly happy to have occupying my empty head space. Greg Adkins brings at least two striking characteristics that boost his latest effort above that of many independent artists; his voice and his songwriting. First, the voice. It’s an instrument that belies its age and experience. Velvet soft, it’s a relaxed, mature sound which strikes me as comfortable, even homey. Dan Seals or Steve Wariner might be the beginning of a vocal comparison. If one can discern sincerity, honesty, kindness, and transparency from the color of a human voice, they are all to be found in Greg Adkins vocal timbre. About the songwriting; one hesitation I have in tagging Adkins collection of songs as country is the misimpression some might have about the songs’ IQ. We know that country can be smart (Lyle Lovett), but it’s probably fair to say that intelligence isn’t the first thing that comes to mind when one thinks about country music. To the contrary, Greg Adkins is a smart songwriter. He adroitly meshes folk music’s inclination to say something meaningful, maybe even profound, with country music’s honest simplicity. Expressing deep, emotional thoughts in a palatable, accessible way surely takes significant brain power. I’m betting that Adkins can write songs and chew gum at the same time. The songs from Chase the Western Sky seem to be written with a plan, complete with outline. Like other songwriters I admire, the songs from this project seem determined to take me somewhere. As a listener, I feel the confidence. Many folkish songwriters meander on the path of winding roads which are known to few but the songwriter. I love mystery and ambiguity in song, but want assurance that if searching, I’ll find something beneath the musical riddle. I don’t want to invest time if there isn’t something like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There are too many musical choices to spend inordinate time listening to a songwriter chase the tail of his own confusion (that’s confusion as a songwriter, not confusion about life, which we all share sometimes). Clarity. That might be the right word. The songs on this collection make sense. As narratives and emotionally, they resonate. They are simple, but not simple minded. They are clean and lucid, not pretentious and cluttered. Indian filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan has become known for narrative twists that are both surprising and satisfying, which isn’t easy. Some endings are surprising, but hokey. Some are satisfying, but not surprising; we see them coming from the concession stand. Adkins swiped a page from the Shyamalan playbook with songs like “On the Train Back Home” and “The End of You and Me,” which are unexpected and agreeable. With such an ending, I’m not just joyful; I’m joyfully moved. “The End of You and Me” is a song which takes a lump in the throat twist which won’t be revealed here. It’s so good that to reveal it would be to deprive you of experiencing the wonder of hearing it yourself. Like a telephoto lens slowly twisted into focus, each line reveals a little more of the puzzle. Soon the listener realizes that his first impression was quite mistaken, but in a good way. At once, the denouement is satisfying and fulfilling, lending perspective and meaning to the song that is far more eloquent and consequential than one might have imagined from his first impression. With superb vision, the musically lighthearted “Someday” anticipates the growth and development of a baby boy. With a distinctive harmonica introduction, the lyrics compare and contrast the questions of a boy and his father. I’ve always believed that art which effectively compresses the emotion of many years into one moment–a two hour movie, beautiful oil painting, short poem, or three minute song–is potent, concentrated medicine. Done well, such a song harvests years of emotion as if were being squeezed from a family photo album. Hearing such work, one is prone to flashes of emotion which can leave even the most hardened man wailing like a baby. Only the carefree melody of this song keeps it from being such a full blown weeper. “Further Up and Further In” is Adkins’s obvious nod to C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia and might be the least country of all the songs on the album. In another era, “Old Radio”–given aggressive record label promotion–could have been a hit record on mainstream country radio. “My Own Worst Enemy” is confessional in nature with the kind of personal candor that would make most of us squirm. The only cover is Julie Miller’s “By Way of Sorrow.” My friend Sharon says that literally every song on this project is good. Though it’s rare to find such a CD, I’m right with Sharon on that point. It’s the kind of disc in which skipping songs rarely happens. Every song is standout good. Adkins doesn’t seem to mind experimenting with a variety of musical flavors. Besides an array of the usual guitars and pianos, producer Chris Rosser recruited players sporting fiddle, upright bass, harmonica, dobro, banjo, glockenspiel, tambourine and a range of other unconventional percussion and instruments that might be found at a bluegrass festival or Fan Fair (known now as the CMA Music Festival). There exist a number of Christian artists that paved the way for an album such as Chase the Western Sky. And though it’s an effort that comes early in the career of Greg Adkins, its quality is on par with many of those that preceded it. Some are known, some are not. Some lean closer to folk, others closer to country: Ron David Moore, Paul Overstreet, Bruce Carroll, Dave Potts (who sings harmony on several Chase the Western Sky cuts and toured briefly with Adkins), Lenny LeBlanc (in pre-Christian days, the late 70s, had a Top 40 hit called “Falling” with partner Pete Carr), Brian Barrett, Buddy Greene, Dan Seals, Love Song, The Way, Dogwood (not the 90s punk-rock outfit), and let’s be honest–at times, Caedmon’s Call, Mark Heard, and Andrew Peterson (2004 Peterson’s song “Family Man”, from the album Love and Thunder, was nominated in the category “Country Recorded Song of the Year” for the 35th Annual Dove Awards). Over the last twenty years, I’ve personally collected music from all of these artists, including the music of Greg Adkins. It’s a definite niche. To one extent or another, they play and sing country music. And I like it. I like it a lot. Maybe. But if you see my mom, let’s keep that between us.

Forgiveness, like love, like our identity in Christ, is not a feeling. It is not rooted in our feelings, our soul-life. Forgiveness, like love and living from our identity, is a choice – a choice made because we know we have the Forgiving One living within us who is our Life. I don’t have make myself feel like a king, a priest, holy, blameless, not condemned; it is my place to choose to faithe (exercise faith, rely, actively believe and act in faith on what I believe – faith as a verb instead of a noun). Sometimes we have to choose again and again. In the mid nineties I had an identity crash, and had been so bound up in false identities that I had to choose again and again to believe in my real identity in Christ. This revelation doesn’t come to us and get through to us without opposition – we have a very real, a very hateful enemy that deeply desires to quell the rising expression of Christ’s life, love, and power in us. A mature Christian, one who relies totally on Christ, is very dangerous to the darkness – he sheds light wherever he goes, because he relies totally on Christ’s light within himself – and faith puts God into action. So – we have forgiveness issues. People have done wrong things to us, and very rightly we are bothered and angered by the injustice. We feel angry, and we feel we want to avoid them. These feelings are neither right or wrong – they are just feelings. Our feelings follow our thinking, our choices of faith. What we must remember is we are containers. Cups. Vessels. Branches. We are not meant to “forgive others” in our human effort. All we do is affirm that the One who hung on the Cross and said of his executioners, “Father, forgive them – they don’t know what they are doing,” lives in us. He is our forgiveness for others. All we do is thank Him for being our indwelling, faith-accessible Forgiveness. So, as with our identity in Christ, we choose – a naked choice that is not dependent on feelings, because it is driven by something so much deeper. “Lord, because you are Love in me, I choose to access your Love; what belongs to You belongs to me, because we are married, because we are in union, because we are ‘one spirit,’ not two. You laid down Your rights; You had done no wrong, and yet You were wronged – and You forgave. You are my indwelling source, my power to forgive ________. I totally and completely absolve them of any wrong, and ask that you would bring them to know you deeply. And furthermore, since You “work all things after the counsel of Your own will,” I say in faith with Joseph that You “meant evil for good” and You ordained that these people should wrong me in this way; You purposed to use their wrong to show me the power of Your forgiveness in me, and to show them the power and love of God.” That’s the naked choice – trust God no matter what we feel, think, see, hear, experience. God said it; we rely on it. I woke up on our band bus one morning a few years ago, anxious, fretting. I prayed through my identity in Christ. I asked God to work in my life. I prayed and prayed as I laid there. And after awhile a still, small Voice said calmly, You’re just trying to change how you feel. I laughed out loud, said, “You’re right,” and got up. Once I stopped centering on the feelings, they slowly dissipated as I went about my day. In forgiveness, as with other aspects of the Christian life, we often center on feelings, and since we’re trying to change them they won’t cooperate; it’s like trying not to be nervous. Taking our attention from feelings, putting it on Christ, will cause the feelings to dissipate as we continually choose to trust. We recognize and rely on God’s Facts – and God works through us.

Ever hear a song lyric that stopped you dead in your tracks, stirred something deep within you, or excited your imagination, or even made you chuckle with delight at the gift of the artist? I thought so. And now’s your chance to share it. I had the privilege of sharing a meal with 3 of my fellow Rabbit Room contributors the other day when I was in Nashville for a writing trip. Randall Goodgame, Eric Peters, Andrew Peterson, and myself partook of some comfort food at Tommy’s – I had meatloaf while the other guys all had pork, I believe (though I tried to tell them they shouldn’t since Jesus didn’t eat pork.) With writing on my mind, our conversation turned to our favorite song lyrics, and I told the fellas that we should write a post about our favorite lyrics of all time and ask others to submit theirs. I imagine most of us who visit the Rabbit Room know the pleasure of being moved by a great song lyric, and if that’s you, then it’s time for you to share it with the rest of us. We’d love to hear from you, the readers (and even the other contributors), about those moments when you heard a song and went, “Ahh! how’d they do that to me!” I think it’s best to not necessarily post a whole song, but only the portion of a song that best represents the lyric. If you have to post the whole song, do it, but I think brevity will be better here – and feel free to do multiple posts if you think of others. Speaking of brevity, I’ll stop writing about it and start doing it, giving an example of how to post: “song lyric here” — Artist “Name Of Song” Title Of Album Song Came From So like this: “Use your intuition It’s just like goin’ fishin’ You cast your line and hope you get a bite…” — Paul Simon “Father & Daughter” Surprise

When I graduated from college, I remember my english professor Fred Ashe walking at the front of the procession carrying this huge winged sphere on a pole that looked straight out of The Jetsons. I remember thinking, “What is that?” It was a mace. Evidently, once the use of heavy armor went out of style, men came up with a ceremonial use for their proud battle club. And I’ll get back to that in a minute. I, and many of my artist friends use the word “insecure” like an I.D. badge clipped onto our hip beatnik threads. I was having a conversation with a dear friend recently and he called himself “painfully insecure” with no hesitation whatsoever. At least he’s being honest, right? Our culture teaches artists that our art gives us value. But even in that twisted value system, our creations are always in the past,  sentencing us to a lifetime of self-doubt, and “chasing after the wind.” And man, that wind is hard to catch. Now, as a believer of the Christian Gospel, kinship with Jesus gives me all the value I could ever need and more, but that is often hard to remember in the face of the ever-present false value system of our culture. I propose, therefore, that we pay new attention to the word, insecure. Since that’s our self-defeating word of choice, let us put it to proper use. When the exterior doors of my house are locked, my house is relatively secure. Now, if someone really wanted to break in and screw things up, they could watch our daily habits and break in when we leave. But, I put my hope in the locks and the relative safety of the neighborhood, and drive away. Here’s what I’m saying. As an artist and a believer in Christ, when I say “I am insecure,” I am actually saying, “I have forgotten where to put my hope.” I can not say “I am a believer” and “I am insecure” and be telling the truth about both things. I am either mistaken about my faith, or confused about the word “secure.” In Jesus, I am presently and eternally secure. This is not mere semantics. If we agree that we can effortlessly idolize our gifts, and other peoples appreciation of them, then we can as easily encourage each other away from that tendency by calling it what it is. “Today, I am forgetting the power of what Christ has done in me.” “Today, I am believing a warped value system.” “Today, I have forgotten. Will you remind me?” That bears more hope than, “I am so insecure.” And, it is much more true. This brings me back to the mace. What a nasty, powerful weapon. Back in the day, if you wielded a mace, you were ready to do serious harm. Today, we carry polished and decorated imitations for show. There is no danger, there is no power, and to an onlooker, the presence of a mace is just confusing. This is what my faith is like when I claim “insecurity.” What is the point, really? This is not to say that we ought to remember Christ more. Not at all. This is just to say how much we need each other in this life of faith. For our faith to retain its age old purpose, we need to speak this language to each other as we fellowship together and perform together. As artists, we reflect the world back on itself. For us as much as anyone, it is imperative that we are not delusional. If the artist is confused about where to seek and find hope, so may become her audience.

Every Tuesday morning, I sit in a circle of other pastors and discuss and debate (and sometimes yell and point) the Bible for our weekly sermon. We call it the Teaching Pool, a fancier name than “study circle.” Still, for the last four years or more, this same group of 10 or so has taught chapter by chapter through the Bible, crafting our sermons together and challenging each other. So this week, I was the one challenged. We’re teaching through Colossians and I had studied in advance for our meeting, ready to point out the tremendous insights I had already gleaned from the text. I was discussing one of these finer points, when my friend pointed out something in the Greek text which changed everything: “That you is actually plural.” That simple five word statement changed quite a bit about what I was espousing on. My basic point: That Jesus was the fullness of God (the deity in Col. 2) and we are the fullness of Christ. I was going on and on about the value of each of us to be the fullness of Christ on earth, which is certainly true to a point. But then he said that statement. “That you is actually plural.” I sat down and shut up. Pretty soon, the theological beach ball was being tossed around by others and I didn’t want to play. What did that mean? If the you is plural, that changes a lot. I grew up with every Steven Curtis Chapman CD on repeat for a few years. “Treasure of You” is a familiar song in which he sings to his daughter of her tremendous worth in the sight of God; how she is the said “treasure.” And of course there is beautiful truth in this – that we are the pearl of great price. That each and every one of us can be redeemed, loved, adored . . . treasured. “That you is actually plural.” That phrase doesn’t shatter my “Treasure of You” theology but it sure puts a different spin on it. At the very least, it adds a lot more depth. msn games free online. I, alone, am not the fulness of Christ. And God isn’t just coming back for me. Now, we can split theological hairs on this one, but hang with me. We, together, are the fullness of Christ. We, together, are the bride of Christ. With that one statement, the slow realization that it takes all of us together to be who we are meant to be crept in. My friend Andrew said it best: “It takes all of us united together living now and all who came before us in ages past and in ages to come to equal the fulness exhibited by Jesus Christ on earth.” Now that can sound depressing almost in its scope, but I think the opposite is true. There is hope for us to be everything the Bible says that we are (and that we never seem to be able to attain), and that hope is found in each other. I need you. And you need me. And we need others. When I am united with you in love, when we are in One spirit in what we say and do, when we are connected in common mission–that’s when the body of Christ comes alive and we are the treasure, we are the Bride, we are truly the hope of the world. There’s a chasm known as individualism in our Western Christian circles. It’s the “every head bowed and every eye closed” mentality as God and I try to do this spiritual walk the best that I can. You may help teach me some things and you might listen if I ask you to, but overall it’s all about my own personal walk with God. And letting you in on it is a luxury, a privilege–not a right. But my value is not found in my own self, my own abilities or gifts, my own righteousness. I am ugly enough apart from God and even with God, I’m not that great without you. Somehow we become beautiful when we open our lives to each other, sharing life, giving life. “That you is actually plural.” And that’s actually great news–that, as Derek Webb once sang, “For the sake of the world, I thank the Lord that the truth’s not dependent on me.”

At the Florida Sheriffs Boys Ranch, I present a new craft or art project to our eighty-two boys every month. In the past years these monthly projects have spanned the range from soapbox derby cars and tie-dying to oil painting and macramé. I love my job and I love teaching but during January one of the frustrations I deal with on a regular basis has really begun to bother me. This month I’ve been positively giddy about building rockets but out of the eighty kids I’ve offered a rocket kit to, less than twenty have followed through and actually built one. Less than twenty. The rest just don’t get it. “What’s the point,” one boy told me and asked if he could be excused to go play Halo. There is something wrong when a teenage boy doesn’t get excited about a tube full of explosives that is made to be lit on fire and shot into the sky. It bothers me. I deal with the same issue every month and it makes me sad that the imagination and sense of wonder in some of these boys has been so crushed. If we paint, they often try to throw their work in the trash when I’m not looking because it didn’t come out as photorealistic as they imagined it. If we’re building pinewood derby cars they give up and walk away because it doesn’t look just like the one on the side of the box. Where are children learning to be so critical? Boys don’t seem to know how to dream anymore. When I was a kid (ugh, I’m pretty sure starting a sentence like that qualifies me as old or something), we spent all our time outside: skateboarding, building ramps, exploring the woods, hunting bullfrogs with BB guns, planning tree-forts that we’d never build, and flattening pennies on railroad tracks. There was just no end of things to do, or plan, or get away with. But at work I see kids that are completely lost when they are told to turn off the TV and go play. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that they don’t know what to do. The Binary Trigger works by taking advantage of an interpretation of what is considered “semi-auto”. Have you ever wanted a machine gun but can’t afford the high cost? Well, Franklin Armory’s Binary Trigger simulates full auto. The important part to understand is that as of this writing*, this is 100% ATF approved and legal. The BFSIII trigger is Franklin Armory’s latest AR-15 trigger design. The Binary Trigger works by taking advantage of an interpretation of what is considered “semi-auto”. According to the ATF, semi-auto is defined by a single manipulation of the trigger and a single round is fired. On a campus with eighty teenage boys I have never seen a game of tag. Not one. They don’t know what tag is. The only games they know are basketball and football, because they’re taught those on TV. Often when boys are asked what they want to do when they grow up, they don’t have an answer, not even a wild and crazy one like ‘be a rapper’ or ‘play in the NFL’, they just shrug.  They’ve never thought about it because they’ve been spoon fed their entertainment for the whole of their short lives and have never had to entertain themselves with their own imaginations.. If a child doesn’t learn how to imagine, how to dream, how can he ever learn how to hope? What’s going to happen twenty years down the road when life has led them to their wit’s end and they find they aren’t able to see something better down around the bend? I’m afraid our culture is in the process of stripping children of their desire to create, and imagine. When a generation without dreams inherits the earth, what possible good can be left in it? You’d be appalled if I told you how many stories I have of parents that look at their child’s creative efforts and tell them with a frown that it’s not very good and they are wasting their time. Sometimes it’s all can do not to grab people and shake them and make them see what a precious thing they’re destroying. One day, when I have children of my own, I can’t wait to foster their imaginations. I can’t wait to see a ferocious dragon in a smear of fingerpaint. I can’t wait to see the grandeur in their scribbles and swirls. I want to teach my children that the world is a place of endless possibility if only they can learn to see it. I want to show them that the untamed imagination of a boy can grow into the steadfast hope of a man. Until then, I’ll have to settle for the joy I take in seeing the creative spark ignited in those precious few who dare to build a rocket, set it all afire, and cheer it into the great blue yonder.

Thanks for all the entries, folks. Next year’s race is going to be beyond pretentious if you guys are right. I finally got around to seeing There Will Be Blood this weekend and I’m wondering if there isn’t some way to canonize Daniel Day Lewis. That guy is my hero. So after finally seeing that film, Keith gets big bonus points for making me spray tea out my nose for his suggestion of a musical version starring Robin Williams and Eddie Vedder. Who wouldn’t pay to see those two break into a song titled You Stole My Milkshake and duke it out with bowling pins? That’s just genius. (The Dude should make a cameo.) Keith gets another bonus for the title, Flee! Enemies! Another tea-spraying moment for me and that was before I even read his synopsis. Someone get Uwe Boll on the phone to direct that one, please. Other than the comedic entries, I thought a few of them really had that Best Picture ring to them: The Plains of Serengeti, The Eleventh Hour, and Victory’s Song. Unfortunately though, there can only be one winner. The envelope please… The award goes to Tina Zorn for The Plains of Serengeti. Congratulations, Tina. She gets the win because not only does it most definitely have that magic title, it’s also got a pet-cheetah-mauling scene. Just imagine the tagline: ‘On the plain, no one can hear the cheetah maul you.’ I’m crossing my fingers for Tracy Morgan to play the mauled witch-doctor. So there you have it. I’m afraid someone ran off with the solid gold statuette (probably Randy Goodgame because his Legend of Pope Joan got snubbed), but I’ll be sending you a copy of Alan Paton’s brilliant Cry, The Beloved Country. It’s worth more, believe me. It’s one of my favorite books ever and is just screaming to be a Best Picture one day. (The only movie version thus far is a stinker.) Thanks for all the entries humoring my little Oscar challenge. If anyone that enjoys this sort of thing has ideas for future contests I’d love to hear them. If you think they are stupid and I should be cheetah-mauled, I’d love to hear that too.

Ellis is one year-old now and is in a mighty good state. He must be growing something fierce because he sleeps a lot these days. 14-15 hours a day. Oh, what I would have given for him to sleep that kind of sleep those first few months of his life. Oh, what I would give to be able to sleep that much every day. How times change. He weighs nearly 20 pounds – a regular bantam featherweight boxer – and crawls around like the ground were his and his dominion alone. I suppose that is the way God intended it. Ellis adores the hand-me-down Fisher Price multi-colored rings (reminds me of a ring toss game) and has a peculiar habit of crawling here and there throughout the house with one in each hand, creating the effect of horse hooves, occasionally pausing to knock them together or to drop them to the ground, all the while watching as they twirl, sway and roll to a standstill. What can I say, the dude likes gravity. Amusement gratis, food, beverage, and burying his drooly face in our long-haired obese cat’s fur; Ellis finds joy in it all and, as a result, all of joy seems to find him. Everything is repeated ad nauseum. I am sure this repetitive nature only gets more drastic and dramatic as the months pass and my dear boy grows older. Another great thing about Ellis is the depth of laughter he has infused into this house, our cozy cottage on sleepy Russell Street. What he finds humorous, we of course are effected to confront with laughter as well. His high, free laugh is no weak medicine. The contagion of laughter has done me well, especially since it has been in short supply these days. We kneel and praise all small, forgotten miracles. Over a cup of coffee yesterday with Matthew Perryman Jones, he and I began sharing with one another our outlooks on life, career perplexities and successes, fatherhood, worries and joys. A wise man, this Mr. Jones. He spoke many great things to me, but one thought in particular gripped me, or rather had the effect of unlocking corroded, self-inflicted shackles. As we commented on our world, both macro and micro, and on the American culture we are so helplessly immersed in with all its greed, self-service, community-less-ness and overt and subtle materialism he alluded to songwriting and the pursuit of making it big, pursuing the horizon. The only problem, as he put it, is that we can pursue the horizon forever and a day, but we will never reach it. It is infinite. It is sightless. And it is ruin. We do what we do in life, we write songs for that which is in front of us, who and what is a part of our lives, who and what we can see, care for, nurture and for whom we can give our absolute best. We know what we write, therefore we write what we know. The Truth comes to us from those we know and love, and who love us for who we are. Their voices are light in our lives, laughter for the disheartened, they are grace and hope at the time when it is needed most. This, dear friends, is God alive in the world – our world – and as I can see it, this Emancipation is the way God, THE God, intends it for his Kingdom. Reveille.