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I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons). So for years I’ve heard The Killer Angels referenced, alluded to, and praised but I never paid much attention. Clearly, some great battle happened at Gettysburg and lots of people decided to write lots of books about it but, as I said, it has never been my thing. I vaguely remember being underwhelmed by the movie adaptation (Gettysburg) as well and that reinforced my feeling that this wasn’t a book I was in any hurry to read. At Christmas however, Andrew forced the book on me and throttled me until I promised to read it—then I beat him up (it’s what skinny, left-handed, younger brothers are good for). I few days later I found out how nice it is to be wrong. This book, The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara, shook me. It bent me over, broke me in half, and scattered me all over the ground. It is not what I imagined it would be. It is not three hundred pages of 19th century minutiae and stuffy old men arguing politics. It is not chapter after chapter of troop movements and artillery fire. It is not a novel length treatise on the glory of war or states’ rights or an essay on the evils of slavery. It is so much more, and yet it is all those things as well, and it is beautiful. California Fake ID. The entire book is suffused with an overwhelming sadness and sense of loss, a sense that the Civil War wasn’t just fought with cannonades and cavalry but was fought in men’s souls. The generals and officers, through whose eyes we see the battle, are such heartbroken, wounded, and human characters that in the midst of the incredible horror of war, they are rendered glorious simply by being alive. I can’t tell you how many pages of my copy are tear-stained. By the time I turned the last page, I wanted nothing more than to get in my truck and drive north to find the rocks and fields where these men poured themselves out, to sit alone and dig my hands into the earth and grieve. How accurate the book is historically, I don’t know, but I do know beyond any shadow of doubt that this is a true story. True in the sense that it is a revelation of the human soul. It is a document of shining heights and bloody, nightmarish depths. On a precious few occasions, I have read books that so emotionally exhaust me that I cannot pick up another for weeks, and sometimes I cannot even suffer myself to read another work by the same author for fear of spoiling something so sublime. This is one of those books. Michael Shaara has written something timeless, something so unique in the world that it cannot be duplicated or improved upon. I hope his words are still read long after his Pulitzer Prize has turned to dust. Whether or not the Civil War is your thing, this book deserves a place on your bookshelf. It needs to be read.

Twelve hours ago I wanted to be right where you are now. Better yet, I just didn’t want to be where I was. I didn’t want to be what I was or even who I was. These sort of Sundays happen for me every now and then – the ones where I feel there couldn’t be a more incompetent pastor in the history of God’s calling. There were multiple points throughout my own teaching where even I was wondering what I was talking about. Then came the meetings. It took me seemingly forever to be able to leave the church only to have to meet up with more over an extended lunch. All nice people. All good intentions. Nothing over-the-top. But there’s this wall that you hit, really you know that it’s coming far before you hit it because it’s properly labeled “ENOUGH” in giant white letters across the brick facade. I came home and I couldn’t have been more done in that moment. I didn’t want to write, study or talk to anyone (which in my communal house of four married couples is an achievement unto itself). And, ultimately, I didn’t want to do it again. Aside: Now, there are numerous bad pastor jokes (they are all bad, really) where everyone quits every Monday morning. And that’s sad. I am not one of those guys. I will laugh politely when one of those guys makes that stupid joke, but I am not one. But I really didn’t want to do it again. I think my motto a few hours ago would be, “If only I could have a job from 9 to 5, where I could just clock in and clock out and not bring it home with me. I’d have weekends. My wife and I could travel. I’d actually make some money. And best of all, I’m not on the receiving end of phone calls about our budget (under), people’s complaints (over), or having to be all things to all people. But that’s a lie – a myth built on escapism. I have heard the overtures speaking in the opposite direction: “I’d love to write and be a pastor and just be self-employed like you. You’re your own boss.” True. Even from other pastors, I’ve heard: “I’d love to work in a church like yours – filled with young dreamers and creative types, much better than my own where it takes forever to get anything done.” And true again. I’m sure if I was pushing paper I would miss this gig. I would miss working wherever my laptop was conveniently located (Panera, anyone?). I would miss meaningful conversations and a feeling of inspiration and purpose – that my job actually meant something. But earlier I didn’t care for any of those explanations at all. I just wanted out. And as averse as I am to taking the quick ticket, I’m glad there wasn’t one laying around in that moment to grab. Now it’s 2 am. I’m normally asleep three or even four hours ago. It’s lame, I know, but it’s true. But tonight I can’t sleep. Visions of “this morning went horrible and I hate myself” are playing over and over, replacing the dancing sugarplums from the recently holiday season. I pull a Peretti and pierce the darkness, opening my laptop to check my inbox. And I find ‘the email.’ You know the one before I even describe. The ‘thanks’ one. The one that pulls you back into your purpose and calling and reasons for doing what you do. And of course, she even says, “I don’t know why I’m writing this now…” I do.This is what always seems to happen. As we wrestle with our calling to teach, to paint, to sing, to write, to pastor, to lead, to follow, to endure… we quit again and again, wondering why we are even doing this thing. I feel like there must be countless people better suited for my job than me and that’s a very common thought in my world. But there’s always just enough to keep me moving, to keep me insanely convinced that maybe, maybe I am just the person for this. Doubt is essential to our calling. I find myself more scared of the people uber-confident in their calling and abilities and writing books telling me that I can be the same way. I think I’m drawn to people questioning, asking “What the hell am I doing here?” My Bible is full of those kind of heroes – the shaking-at-the-knees men and women thinking there are countless people more qualified than they are and wondering why the cosmos has deferred a particular task, job, position, title or dream upon them. So I guess I don’t want to trade spaces with you. Or anyone else for that matter. When I look at the company I happen to be in, it’s not so bad after all.

Here’s another cool video, courtesy of my friends at Portland Studios. Justin Gerard illustrated the cover to my 2005 record The Far Country, as well as the illustrations for my upcoming book On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Portland Studios published a beautiful picture book called Beowulf: Grendel the Ghastly, which is available on Portland’s website, and will soon be available here in the Rabbit Room. The soundtrack to the video is courtesy of my friend Jeremy Casella’ new record, RCVRY.

All of us have a God-created need for love, approval, acceptance, security, worth, meaning. Many or most of us grow up in circumstances which make us feel insecure, unloved, unaccepted. Until we abide consistently in Christ, we all know we’re lacking something; we’re insecure. We attempt to fill that sense of lack with “I’m good at something” or “My dad is the CEO of Shell Oil” or “My wife or husband loves me” or “My children need me” or “If I can just win this Dove Award….” And so we give circumstances, the world system, and people the power to crush or crown. Many use alcohol, drugs, and sex as a temporary anesthesia. If we’re not of that bent, we can still see the same tendency in ourselves – excessive television, video games, directionless web surfing, and the like. And then, after a mind-numbing respite, we run back to the restless search for worldly acceptance. God says all of that world system of performance-based acceptance is a sewer. Paul considered his former life of gaining approval, acceptance, worth, security, and meaning from the praise of men as dung. Feces. Human waste. Crap. On the Damascus road God exploded the serpentine spell that had enchanted Saul’s mind, and as his rear hit the ground Paul realized he’d been trying to get Life by feeding on raw sewage. That infinite hunger in us has a big sign on it: “God Only.” “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you have no life in you…Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood remains in me, and I in him. Choosing the best cannabis seeds for your local growing conditions is vitally important. Just as the living Father sent Me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on Me will live because of Me…he who feeds on this bread will live forever.” Jesus wants us to nourish ourselves with Himself, by His Spirit, by His view of us, not by chasing after worldly approval. His Word says that His Blood-bought people are new creations, accepted, loved, that we no longer live but Christ lives in us, that we are dead to sin, dead to Law (dead to having to exert our own strength to ‘be like Christ’), alive to God, slaves of righteousness, holy, full of infinite worth because the Worthy One lives in us. The human race is hungry for what Jesus Christ alone can supply. “All the full-ness of the Deity lives in Christ in bodily form – and you are complete in Him.” One translation I have says, “And you, by your union with Him, are also filled with it.” “If a man love Me, he will keep My words, and My Father will love him, and we will come unto him, and make our abode with him.” That’s real Food and real Water – the Triune God coming to live within a man or woman. What we’re looking for, to the last drop and crumb, is already inside us in Christ: “In Him we have everything (everything!) we need for life and godliness.” “He that believes on Me, rivers of living water shall flow from his inmost being.” When we begin to find that better way of resting in total reliance on Christ, our Kingdom life begins here and now in earnest. Power – passion – purpose – and real food and drink.

I crossed the Tennessee River at precisely 12:30am. I know this because I happened to glance at the green-glowing dashboard clock while the waters sneaked along dark and cavernous beneath the airborne pavement at that very moment. The river barely revealed its broad image in those late hours, but the moon’s astral glow made the river’s presence below the bridge visible, even if only in my mind’s eye. A small array of clouds funneled overhead, their horizon-long tendrils colored mock-orange, no doubt from the lights of nearby Huntsville, and they snubbed their proverbial noses at the clarity of night. I drove away from Birmingham after saying goodbye to some old and new friends at a surprisingly well-attended show at the church Danielle and I worshiped at during our six-year stay in the Magic City. Once meeting in a warehouse (not the cool, red brick-laden kind; imagine the drab, boring office variety), the church bought Birmingham’s only combination ice-skating rink/indoor soccer facility a couple of years ago and has slowly converted it into a surprisingly cozy, hospitable, high-ceilinged affair. Lovely and inviting with its earth tones, stained concrete floors, well-worn antique sanctuary doors, and non-traditional soft lighting, the building has a new life of its own. I was glad to see familiar faces again. I managed to remember a few names, which spared me from embarrassment. It is a good thing my old man tendencies don’t always emerge victorious. I fear that I say some very odd, nay, clumsy things from stage. I managed to fumble my way through my ill-thought-out set list, all the while hoping against hope that the words on my heart would translate from my lips clearly and humbly. On the drive down to Alabama I had hoped to communicate with my gracious (and patient) audience by being openly honest and upfront with them about my recent personal grappling(s) with God. I remember trying to equate my present story with that of Jacob’s ancient one. Instead, I’m fairly certain that I came off like a clueless child uttering words he knows nothing about. I felt like I was another son of Laughter, only wanting. Folks were nice afterwards anyway. One of the most frustrating and perplexing things about myself – to me, at least – is my inability to clearly state what is fresh on my heart and mind whenever I get the opportunity, the privilege, to be on stage and share what has been given me. I nearly always manage to get tongue-tied and stutter and stammer my way to near oblivion. I speak nonsensically. I make a mockery of the English language. I am a klutz. I become a clanging cymbal to those within earshot. I ride roughshod over beauteous language. In short, I become a fool. Do you relate to this? If only I possessed the tongue of an angel, if only words weren’t such an obstacle for my muddied mind. If only I were someone else. Do you relate to that? After staying awake by the power of sunflower seeds, I pulled into Nashville around 2:30am and the skyline was as sharp and in-focus as I’ve seen it in many months. Cityscapes are held tighter and are more visually stunning when the air is cold and the sky bereft of cloud cover. Skylines appear more confident-looking on crisp, cold fall nights when the stars are shining full throttle and the artificial downtown lights create their own sort of brilliance giving further definition to the buildings’ already impressive outlines. It is a place of integrity on nights like this. Buildings seem to stand taller, the stars fervently grind away at darkness, the cold takes your breath away, while your breath gives back to the cold air its heavy-handedness. I suppose this is akin to what the Holy Spirit manages to do with us, the well-meaning, deeply hoping children and klutzes of God. I wonder, how is it that we become the strong-frail dwellings of integrity and light now that God himself has shone his grace upon and within us? We, as a result, are held tighter, stand taller, receive a confidence and courage that is not our own, and relay a definition – an outline, if you will – that is far more becoming to us because of that outreach of grace than we must be to God in all our clumsy, wishful pseudo-articulateness. Praise be.

I just got done reading a book that I honestly didn’t expect to like as much as I did. I picked it up on a whim because I had a gift card and the hardcover was only 5 bucks on the bargain table at Barnes & Noble. The book is called “Bono” and is a series of interviews by Mischka Assayas with, you guessed it, Bono: celebrity humanitarian, friend of world leaders, religious mystic, hedonist, equal parts stump preacher and traveling salesman, and of course the mercurial frontman for arguably the biggest rock band in the world: U2. That Bono is one of the more intriguing personalities in the worlds he inhabits of politics, entertainment, and spirituality is an understatement, and I expected this book to interesting, but I didn’t expect it to enthrall me the way it did. My reading discipline right now is that I read a book that I ought to read, usually of a theological nature, as part of my devotion time in the mornings, and then at night before bed I read a book that is less demanding – usually a novel, a book that I want to read before going to sleep. “Bono” was going to be my junk food read, and the first night I cracked it open I couldn’t put it down, staying up ‘til the early morning hours. It was clear that my devotional reading times were going to take a hit. I was having trouble sleeping (we were away from home) so I would take a sleep aid and the countdown would begin: I knew I had 20 minutes before I would be sleepy. But through bleary eyes I fended off sleep to read “just one more chapter”. Admittedly, I’ve been a U2 fan since high school and have had a man-crush on Bono ever since. But even if you’re not a fan, I think there is much to tickle the mind in this book. He’s lived a remarkable life and could be a case study of passion. It’s set up like an ongoing interview, where Assayas asks a question and Bono responds, back and forth, as we eavesdrop on a conversation about music, faith, politics, humanitarianism, and other big ideas (like the kind of landscape artist bassist Adam Clayton would be if he hadn’t ended up in a rock band.) Assayas clearly disagrees and challenges Bono on his humanitarian idealism and his belief in God among other things, which makes for a livelier and more interesting conversation than if he’d succumbed to hero worship and fawning. At first I found Assayas’ contrariness annoying, but in the end was grateful for the conversation it produced. The only thing I wondered is where the conversation would have gone if Assayas was more religiously minded – how much deeper would it have gone? Still, of particular interest to me was the way Bono speaks often and explicitly about his faith – seeming to almost be looking for opportunities to talk about this part of his life. I remember first seeing the U2 album “Boy” in a Christian record store in Sioux Falls, South Dakota when I was a kid and being intrigued. I passed over it at the time opting instead for Amy Grant’s “Age To Age” album because I thought she was prettier, but as I got older I was more and more taken by this Irish band whose album I would find in our local Christian bookstore but who I would also hear on the radio and on my favorite T.V. shows like “21 Jump Street” and “Miami Vice”. These guys were apparently Christian, but they were cool, too, and listening to U2 gave my burgeoning sense of Christian identity some much desired street cred. U2’s music became a sort of handshake between me and my Christian friends. They belonged to us. And of course, that’s what almost ruined everything. In the late 80’s and the 90’s most Christians I knew felt betrayed by U2 as the sincerity of their faith came into question and became a source of ongoing debate for the next 15 years. Some are still suspicious. Bono got sexier, could be spotted smoking, drinking, dressed in drag, and cussing like a sailor. It was confusing to young believers who had never been equipped to understand much beyond the black and white accoutrements of an over-simplified Christian worldview. But deep down I never lost faith. I still bought U2 albums and pored over the lyrics looking for clues. vipdubai escort in dubai. My searches were rewarded in songs like One, Until The End of The World, The Wanderer, and Wake Up Dead Man, just to name a few. These songs were soul-searing confessions and a yearning for grace with a capital G. With the release of “All That You Can’t Leave Behind” it appeared that the burning spirituality that had seemed to lie dormant for some was once again U2’s calling card. Had they ever lost faith? Or were they just trying to avoid being ghetto-ized by the evangelical subculture who wanted to make them the poster children of hip Christianity? “Bono” addresses this and offers an explanation for some of their antics in the 90’s. One of the things that I was reminded of was that though U2 is one of the most successful rock bands in the world, they’ve always defied convention. “Joshua Tree”, though one of the most successful records of the 80’s, doesn’t sound like a conventional 80’s record. They were rock stars that were always playing against type, and as Bono describes it, that’s what the 90’s were about. U2 was earnest and unpretentious when the musical zeitgeist of the 80’s was all about glam and fashion (think Culture Club & Duran Duran). But when alternative rock music went mainstream with Nirvanna, Pearl Jam, and others in the 90’s, that’s when U2 went glam and got sexy. What was more countercultural than doing a disco album in the 90’s? Bono maintains that the heart of U2 never changed, they were just looking for new ways to challenge the conventions of their time, to mock the rock star myth. These were the kinds of insights I expected from this book, and while it was all very interesting, it turned out to be the least compelling part of the book. It was rather his stories of growing up with a stern father, his married life of more than 25 years to one woman, the stories of his times in Africa and San Salvador that would lead to his advocacy for the world’s poor, his Christian philosophizing, and his relationships with some of most influential people of our times that made for long nights where I couldn’t put the book down. I loved reading how important it his to him to get the blessing of older men. He never misses the opportunity to ask for it, kneeling before men like Billy Graham, Nelson Mandela, and Pope John Paul to ask for their blessing. He shared remarkable stories like the one of Mikhail Gorbachev’s recent unexpected visit to his house for dinner one night, stuffed animals in hand as gifts for Bono’s children. (Over dinner, Bono asked Gorbachev if he believed in God, Gorbachev’s answer was no, but he believed in the universe). Of great value to me also were the insights into Bono’s creative process. For years he’s managed to write songs both accessible and artistic and it stirred my own creative juices to hear how he approaches his craft. One of the other things that really made an impression was how from the very start U2 understood what they were doing as worship. There is much talk now of Christian artists wanting to break out of the evangelical “ghetto” that stifles so much good creativity. But long before this was a common conversation, these scrappy Irish kids who could barely play their instruments were instinctively blazing a trail around the ghetto, setting the borders on fire, on their way to becoming in maybe the most important sense a truly “Christian” rock band. This was meant to be a short review (my reviews here are always too long), but I keep finding aspects of the book that seem worthy to mention. I’m going to practice some self-discipline now and say that you’ll just have to read the book. U2 is genuinely a seminal band who have inspired many imitators but no equals. Reading this book gives gives you a peek into the life of a truly passionate, intelligent, big spirited (if not big headed) artist who has the appearance of fearlessness and whose megalomania is bewilderingly matched only by a profound humility. Thank God I’m done with this book so now I can get some sleep at night and return to my less “flashier” devotional studies.

The Academy Awards nominations were announced earlier this week. Ten years ago I’d have been giddy with excitement, in fact, I actually attended Oscar parties with my film club in college (the Film Guild we called it—and we were serious). Some people wore tuxes–that’s right, wore tuxes–to the bar at the Holiday Inn in East Hartford, CT to watch the awards show on the big screen TV in the corner by the Ms. Pacman machine. It was a real classy outfit. I was the president. You’ll notice I’m not making any films lately. So these days I have to say I don’t really care too much. I take a passing interest in what gets nominated but I don’t bother watching the show anymore. Heck, I can’t rent a tux in my small town anyway. The thing I notice though, is that the films that make the Best Picture list usually sound like they were made to be there. Just look at this list of contenders and tell me they don’t all sound like their nominations were foregone conclusions the moment the screenplay rolled off the copier: There Will Be Blood No Country for Old Men Atonement Munich Brokeback Mountain The Aviator Finding Neverland You get the idea. I’m leaving out the oddballs like Michael Clayton, Juno, Million Dollar Baby, Crash, etc. for the sake of fun but you have to admit that some titles just have ‘nominate me’ written all over them before you even know whether the movie is worth watching. So here’s the deal. I want to know what’s going to win Best Picture next year. Whoever makes up the most convincing title with that Best Picture ring to it gets a free book from the Rabbit Room store. We’ll close submissions a week from the date of this post and open the envelope and cheer (snicker) at the winner. Bonus points for coming up with a compelling synopsis to go along with your title, and bonus points if it makes me laugh and spit tea out my nose. Feel free to submit as many as you like. I’ll get the ball rolling. (drum roll) (cue the guy with the movie trailer voice) Armenius – Rome’s greatest general retires to his homeland of Gaul after a lifetime of service. But when his oldest friend becomes the new Roman Emperor and leads the legions north to expand the Empire, Armenius unites the barbarian tribes of his homeland and defends Gaul against not only the man he once loved as a brother, but against the greatest army the world has ever known. (That’s pretty well a true story by the way.) Whispers in August – As a man grieves the passing of his wife of 30 years, he uncovers a treasure of unsent letters that will shatter his perception of their relationship. He may lose the rest of his family and even his own soul unless his broken heart can piece together the truth. Your turn.

The best movies are true. So true, that its characters aren’t necessarily heralded as heroes or reviled as villains. The players are neither perfect nor irreparable; somewhere in between, they walk the plank of life in synch with their audience. Though such films may sing off-key a time or two—because that’s how life goes—they are pitch perfect in terms of telling the truth. Away From Her, a movie written and directed by Sarah Polley and featuring Julie Christie, Gordon Pinsent, Olympia Dukakis, and Michael Murphy, is one such film. It did not make my list of the best of 2007, but only because I viewed it in 2008. There isn’t anything complicated about the story. It’s about an aging couple, still very much in love—that make a decision to send the wife, played by Julie Christie—to an assisted living facility. She has shown clear signs of Alzheimer’s Disease and wishes to preserve her own dignity and spare her husband the pain of care giving by entering the facility before her decision making skills vanish with the rest of her mind. Though the husband (Gordon Pinsent) intellectually understands his wife’s logic and tacitly agrees, he—of course—wishes to preserve their physical union and passively resists it. It’s easy to empathize with Grant Anderson’s hesitation. They have a dreamy existence; a rustic but cozy house in the country, time on their hands, side-by-side cross country skiing, warm coffee, interesting books, a beautiful balance of scintillating and meaningful conversation, and a weathered, mature love. It’s clear that this couple’s love—like a fractured bone that becomes stronger when broken—has evolved from the breathless excitement that comes from the first discovery of mutual attraction, when all is right with the world—to something infinitely more substantive, rich and ripe with age. With each touch, with each knowing smile, each unbridled laugh, I felt that ambiguous mixture of joy and pain. The joy of witnessing lives well lived; the pain of knowing one of them will likely end prematurely. It’s a rare family that hasn’t been faced with the repercussions of Alzheimer’s Disease or related dementias. My mother-in-law lived with vascular dementia for over six years before it took her life in March of 2007. When she was no longer able to safely care for herself, we moved her into our home. The slow, methodical horror of witnessing the insidious deterioration of a loved ones mind is torturous. It’s a dilatory death, fraught with the pain of loss. Freedom wanders off with the patients mind: first driving, then cooking, and later—when to visit the bathroom. To a large extent, life is placed on hold while the sick family member receives care. Work and play become secondary to the safe care of the ill family member. One learns to pray for patience. Expectations are lowered. A family of believers is nearly forced to place a full measure of faith and trust in God—not because they are naturally pious—but because there seems no other choice. They draw on hope that God has purpose and providence wrapped in such a perverse, painful package. When Julie Christie’s character Fiona states, “I think all we can aspire to in this situation is a little bit of grace,” any family that has walked the hazy corridors of dementia related illnesses will cry out “Amen,” in full unison. Further dramatic tension develops when Julie Christie’s character forms a relationship with another nursing home patient, Aubrey, a wheel chair-bound mute. Grant Anderson can’t help but feel jealousy and pain when Fiona favors her new friend over Grant. He visits her religiously but she leaves him sitting by himself while doting over Aubrey. He fears that she may, on some level, be punishing him for a long-ago dalliance with a beautiful student from his days as a professor. Nevertheless, he shows up every day, watching the lady that inhabits his wife’s body dispense kindness and attention to another man. In the later stages of the illness, Alzheimer’s patients forget even the most basic things, like what they are doing at the moment, what a bowel movement means, or the importance of reciprocating the phrase, “I love you,” when rendered by a family member. Consequently, caregivers spend significant time redirecting the patient, cleaning up messes, and giving of themselves when little tangible reciprocation can or will be offered. In the last few days of her life, as my mother-in-law drew her final labored breaths assisted by the noisy ventilator, my wife smiled and quietly said, “I love you, Mom.” Fully expecting to face the aching, deafening silence that she had come to expect for so many months, we were stunned and quietly ecstatic when my mother-in-law stated in a tone that sounded like she had just realized something new, “Well, I love you too, Honey.” As the cruelty of the illness evolves, Fiona remembers less and less of her former life. Still, in one of the final scenes, Fiona seems to recall her husband and the emotional depth of their relationship when she says something akin to, “You could have left me, but you didn’t. You always came back for me.” Indeed. Before I ask my wife to marry me, I ask her the silly question, that could only been crafted by an insecure 21 year-old man: “If I wrecked my car and went into a coma for two years, where would you be when I woke up?” Without hesitation, she said, “By your side.” I didn’t think I needed to ask, but I needed to hear it. Out loud. I will never forget her response. Or will I? Among the most noble of characteristics that we see from family of dementia patients are loyalty and enduring love. DC Talk sang, “Love is a verb.” And yet, how deep is the pain that might result from realizing that the only choice in the name of love is to let go: of demands, fear, expectations, and reciprocity? Away From Her is a film that sensitively addresses the odd tension between letting go and holding tight. This movie seems to exhibit Alzheimer’s disease as a metaphor for married life; what do we grasp, what do we release; what do we remember, what do we forget? And finally (and maybe most importantly), what do we forgive?

I don’t know as much as I say that I do. Then again, I tend to say “I don’t know” a lot more than most people in my profession – at least those I’ve seen. I’m a pastor in the Midwest which, I am learning, means that I am supposed to be an expert on certain things. People want precise answers to complex problems, simple structures explaining the mystical, a box for their God. I hate that part of my job. Mostly because I’m horrible at it. The paradoxes of Scripture are numerous and there’s more than my finite mind would like to allow for. I prefer life nice and neat, wrapped up in a predictable way to keep God tidy. Problems of a good God and the suffering of the world, how God is all-knowing yet prayer can change his mind, how we are predestined yet have free will … these are things that emit an “I don’t know” every time from my end. And I think that’s the right answer. It’s really not a copout. It’s frustrating to me when others want to offer concrete answers to these sorts of things, as if they truly know. I think there’s an art to saying “I don’t know.” In fact, I think I just said it – I am an expert (in training) in the art of “I don’t know.” From the descriptions we use, let’s look closer. We are natural. God is supernatural. If I use the same prefix from a famous superhero (man vs. Superman), this implies God is above the natural, or beyond it, perhaps. We are finite. God is infinite. We are ordinary. God is extraordinary. He’s beyond us in ways that we cannot grasp. “His ways are higher than our ways. His thoughts are higher than our thoughts,” we are told in Scripture. So why is it that so many of us try so hard to figure him out, narrow him down, into a specific course of action that he must follow. And when God doesn’t follow it, then there’s something wrong with him. I’ve been reading a lot of this Vietnamese Buddhist monk and poet, Thich Nhat Hanh. He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize and is incredibly wise and compelling in his simplicity. But he has a lot to chew on about this very subject. He writes in his book “Being Peace”: “Guarding knowledge is not a good way to understand. Understanding means to throw away your knowledge. You have to able to transcend your knowledge the way people climb a ladder. If you are on the fifth step of a ladder and think you are very high, there is no hope for you to climb to the sixth. The technique is to release.” While the goal for awareness and understanding is different for Hanh as a Buddhist than from my own self, I can take wisdom from him. Releasing the things that we think that we know is so key. Jesus again and again was telling the religious of his day, “You think you know how this is going to happen (or how this works), but I tell you…” and then he would correct their thinking. The art of “I don’t know” allows me to be me and for God to be God, and knowing those proper roles keeps humble. I can’t figure him out, I can’t place him in a box and this keeps the universe in check – with God in his greatness, his other-ness. And that seems to be the proper thing to focus upon.

A video by Stephen Delopolous , whose new record just released. The animation is by my friends at Portland Studios. What do you think?

I don’t know what’s gotten into me – I’m cleaning out my basement, four rooms and four closets. For awhile after I began, most of it looked like a deathtrap – it had looked better before I started. I’d call what’s down here “junk,” but it isn’t all junk. There’s plenty of that, but also memories, perfectly good gear (I found a stereo I can use in one of the upstairs rooms), years of photos, recordings, practice tapes, bits of songs, and some things that I probably wouldn’t ever want to hear. In fact, the basement is my life on display. Victories and embarrassments. Joys, sufferings. The births of my children. The deaths of old dreams. But within the good stuff is a lot of junk that was weighing me down and keeping me from accomplishing everything I desire. On second thought, I do know what’s gotten into me. Early last year I prayed for God to show me anything in my life that is contrary to His will, that I would forsake whatever it was. The first thing that happened was that the band I’m in, Alison Krauss and Union Station, was going to take a year off – after taking one off the year before. We’d play a summer 2007 tour and then be set free. The only trouble was I didn’t like being set free; freedom is scary. It involves choice, and risk, and faith, and I’d spent sixteen years carving out my role in that band – a role that has become comfortable and sometimes not very risky. I didn’t know all this at the time, only later. So God, answering my prayer, started dragging stuff up. A chunk of Fear. A box of Unbelief. A slimy lump of Self-Pity from the closet – things that have been hidden in there since childhood. It took awhile to take a faith stance, but once I saw the putrid, molding garbage for what it was I handed it over and let Him take it to the dump. Then we replaced Fear with Faith – I choose to believe God is sovereign, that He intentionally filters all of my circumstances, that He has thrilling and adventurous things for me to accomplish for His eternal purposes. I’m a Kingdom man. Faith takes up less space, smells good, and is actually beautiful and useful. The next thing He did was show me a serious problem in my parenting. Later in the year I repeated that prayer, and God again answered – this time with a really bad morning with my kids. There are literally thousands of different porno games to download from the archives I’ve listed, and they come in just about every different flavor of perversion you could imagine, with just as many gameplay types and artistic styles. You know that apocalypse orgy I mentioned? That’s a real game I found on HENTAI-3D.ORG , available for Windows, Mac, and Android. It’s got 3D CG art, MILFs, handjobs and oral sex, plus a patch that adds incestuous relationships. They were rebellious, defiant. What came up in me was Anger – red-hot anger. Later, I asked God what the anger was all about, because at the time I had no clue. The word came up in my mind’s eye, spelled out: “F – E – A – R.” I said, “Well, fear of what?” And into my mind’s eye appeared a couple of my relatives and their two grown sons, who are in a continuous cycle of rebellion, jail, and refusing to take responsibility. That mental furniture was the source of my fear-turned-to-anger. So again, I gave it up to the dump. “All thy children shall be taught of Yahweh, and great shall be the peace of thy children.” Fear for Faith. Junk for treasure and basement clarity. Now, don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of useful stuff in my basement. Passion. A strong love and affection for my wife and kids. Musical talent. A desire to excel. A love of writing. Creativity, and an exploding desire to use it. And other things. But, like the stereo I found hidden behind a bunch of junk, the boxes of Fear hide the good, useful things, and so God can’t make use of us like He wants to. Sometimes when we’ve opened ourselves to God’s working we get hit with circumstances and have a knee-jerk emotional reaction. We often judge one another – and ourselves – in those times, but it is in those reactions that God is bringing up the junk so that the perfection of the House can be seen and utilized to the highest degree. It’s not the time for condemnation (self- or otherwise); if we choose faith, it’s a time for rejoicing. “For by one sacrifice He has perfected forever those who are being made holy.” The House of “I” is perfect; we just need to recognize that, to let go of old ways of thinking, and embrace being new creations. We’re transformed from glory to glory by that mind renewal. So here I am, cleaning out my basement. Except for two rooms and one closet, it looks trashed right now, but in a few more days this basement studio will be completely revamped, and I’ll be geared up for a powerful and productive year off the AKUS road.

I as said I would a few weeks ago, I dug out my dusty old query letter and put it under the microscope. I gave it a few tweaks, tightened it up a bit, and now I feel like it’s in serviceable shape. This is the meat of a letter I’ll be sending out to literary agents to try to tempt them to read my manuscript, or at least the first few pages. Conventional wisdom (of which I’m rarely a fan) says that the letter should be a page or less and needs to convey the basic concept of the book quickly, neatly, and preferably with a taste of your writing style. Sounds easy, right? Trust me, once you’ve spent a few years and over a hundred thousand words telling a story, boiling it all down into two short paragraphs is maddening. Here it is: In the tradition of Johnny Tremain, THE FIDDLER’S GUN (100,000 words) is the story of a young woman’s fight for her own independence during the Revolutionary War. The Sisters of the Ebenezer orphanage in Georgia don’t know what to do with Phinea Button. She matches knuckles with the boys, sticks her nose up at bonnets and dresses, is determined to do anything they forbid her, and is nearly a grown woman. But when the American War of Independence threatens her tiny community, Phinea’s reckless nature spins beyond even her own control. She kills a British soldier and flees the orphanage with a price on her head. On the run, she joins the crew of a privateer ship and begins a new life on the high seas of the Revolutionary War. She can’t run forever though, the British are close behind and the home she ran away from is about to become a battlefield. So there you have it. Is it good? Heck if I know. What bothers me about it is that it’s not accurate. It doesn’t convey the romance of the book. It feels like nothing but plot when the book is (in my mind) very character driven. And then there’s the fact that the plot as outlined is scarcely complete or even accurate. Why? Because to get any more detailed requires far too much exposition for the brevity required by the letter. So here I sit. Stumped. I’ll tinker with it for another week or so while I move on to the next step: deciding whom to send it to. That brings up another problem. Most agents work with a select few genres and it’s important that I target those that deal with my type of manuscript. The trouble is that I’m not sure what genre my book fits into. Sometimes I feel like it’s Young Adult. Other times I feel like it’s Historical Fiction. Sometimes I feel it might even be Literary. A lot of advice I hear tells me to go to the bookstore and find books like mine in order to figure out where mine fits in. I’ve done that. In fact I do it all the time, and I have yet to really find any book that I think is terribly similar. I can’t even figure out what shelf it would be on. It frustrates me to no end. The only exception of note is the book that I reference in the query letter, Johnny Tremain. Though there are many similarities, I can easily place that book in Young Adult, a genre that I usually feel isn’t quite right for me. Did I mention that this is frustrating? So as I ponder these ridiculous things, I’ll be scouring the internet and the local bookstores in search of another dozen or so agents to submit my work to. Meanwhile, if anyone has any input on genre or nits to pick on the letter, I’m all ears (or eyes, this being the internet and all.)

“When a doctrinal student at Princeton asked, ‘What is there left in the world for original dissertation research?’ Albert Einstein replied, ‘Find out about prayer. Somebody must find out about prayer.’” And so begins chapter one of Phillip Yancey’s newest book, “Prayer: Does It Make A Difference?” It’s a promising way to start a book and it stirred my hopes that maybe with Yancey’s help I might get some conclusive answers about the subject. I’ll be honest with you. I’ve been in a dry spell for the better part of a year, the last several months unable to have much of anything that resembled a vibrant prayer life, sometimes not even able to pray at all. I felt much like Jayber Crow from Wendell Berry’s book of the same name who eventually found it pointless to pray if every prayer ends with “not my will, but thy will done.” What’s the use in bringing requests to God if in the end you tell Him to disregard them? I know that more than being a wish list prayer is also communion and conversation. But increasingly what I got from prayer was a numbing sense of isolation and the fear I was talking to myself. I know that prayer is also meant to be an exercise in aligning my heart and mind with the eternal instead of the gnawing temporal – like Anthony Hopkins as C.S. Lewis in the movie Shadowlands says: “I don’t pray to change God, but so that God can change me” (paraphrase from memory). And yet there’s the sticky matter of the scriptures continually encouraging us to pray for more than just perspective, that anything can be asked for in prayer and that we should pray expectantly. In fact, much of the Lord’s prayer is comprised of material requests: for food and relational dynamics, for God’s kingdom to be realized on earth as it is in heaven, for the eternal to interrupt the temporal course of things. I found that I kept adjusting my expectations of prayer as a way of self-preservation – expecting less and less so I wouldn’t be disappointed. The heart learns to protect itself. But I couldn’t help feeling this was a cop-out and a refusal to engage the tensions between what the bible says about prayer and my own experience of it. So though I refused to fall back on a half-minded theological position of lowered expectations, I also found the tension between the biblical text and real life experience too enervating. So I opted for a different kind of copout, I guess: I just quit praying. I couldn’t find a motivation for it and just felt helpless when I would try – lost in a labyrinth of speculation, half-knowledge, and experience. I would ask others to pray for me and found great comfort in that, but as for myself I had become a deaf mute. (I need to say here that my experience includes some incredible instances of answered prayer and God’s faithfulness – nearly irrefutable evidences of his involvement in our lives. Yet from the desert, those memories seem distant and somewhat torturous in that they won’t allow you the comfort of abandoning hope altogether, but lead you on in hopes that God is still listening though all evidence accuses Him otherwise. Yancey explores the difficulty of God’s seemingly selective involvement when he writes: “I keep wanting Jesus to be more systematic. I want him to solve world hunger, not just feed five thousand who happen to be listening to him one day. I want him to destroy the polio virus, not merely heal an occasional paralytic… we keep expecting God to move in immovable fixed patterns, but the bible shows a tendency for God to act in a way that seems almost arbitrary… quirky.” Yet having seen Jesus care for the one paralytic, we can’t help but hope that he cares for our ailments and we are left with the sometimes arduous work of hoping when all else would tempt us otherwise.) When I saw that Yancey had released a new book on the subject of prayer, I couldn’t wait to dig into it in hopes of finding a better understanding of prayer to help me out of my own rut. The book chronicles his own frustrating attempts at reconciling the difference between what the bible seems to promise about prayer and the way it plays out in real life. Though I hoped for something more conclusive, it quickly became apparent that Yancey’s book was offering at least as many questions as it was answers. Any answers he did posit were often unsatisfying – which to his credit is much like prayer itself. And yet, by the end of the book, a peace descended and I found that I was praying regularly again. Yancey is great at what he does. He’s not a Buechner or Nouwen but he’s a reflective and intelligent believer who is gifted at bringing big ideas to a mainstream audience and helping them wrestle with things they may not otherwise wrestle with. It was through Rich Mullins that I discovered Mark Heard – Mullins being much more accessible than Heard but plowing some of the same ground – and it’s through Yancey that a lot of people have discovered writers more exceptional than himself (like Buechner and Nouwen). I think of him as a bridge builder, building 3 way bridges between God, average people, and the kind of worthwhile rigorous faith that comes from thoughtful reflection. He serves his readership well in my opinion and gently helps people ask difficult questions, securely holding their hand through the process. His books are researched thoroughly and are filled with moving stories and quotes from a wide spectrum of sources. “Prayer” is no different. Smart, thoughtful, very moving. He asked a lot of questions I had already afflicted myself with, so there was no real sense of new revelation. And yet revelation occurred in me slowly and subtly over the course of reading this book. Maybe revolution is a better word, a slow, almost imperceptible revolution, less in my understanding and more in my soul. Thinking about it afterward, it seemed to me that reading this book was much like marriage counseling between God and myself. I realized that I’d been bottling up my frustrations and hurts and was locked in an ongoing conversation with myself. My inner dialogue sounded like the bitter complaints of a hurt lover: “What’s God’s deal anyway? Why is He ignoring me? Why the constant invalidation of my concerns? Why the cool disregard of my needs?” Also, like a disgruntled spouse, I would talk to others about my frustrations. Between going over my grievances with others and the ongoing conversation with myself, I realized I had ceased talking with God about it. We were estranged. Reading Yancey’s book became like a therapy session between God and myself with Yancey as a mediator. Through his words I was able to express my own grievances as well as hear God’s side of the story in a fresh way. We were on speaking terms again and more than gaining perspective I was re-gaining access to a relationship. Halfway through there emerged a real sense that the act of reading the book itself was an intimate time of prayer. We were talking again. As I mentioned, Yancey offers little in terms of satisfactory answers to the problems that prayer poses, but prayer has never been very well suited for finding answers – Just ask Job. Relationship has to be the ultimate goal of prayer. We need to fall in love and sense that we are loved, too. We need help in engaging the mystery of this love. And any attempt on Yancey’s part to diminish the tension and mystery inherent in prayer would render his book impotent and less than true. In the end, Yancey helps us ask the hard questions about prayer, but also confronts us with the hardest kind of answers – messy, ambiguous, and the kind that dare us to hope and to engage our heart, mind, and even soul. Whether or not you are struggling with prayer, I highly recommend this as a thoughtful book full of heart and integrity. My prayer is that, like me, you will find peace, perspective, and an opportunity to engage the God of the universe in an intimate conversation about your own deepest hopes and fears.

A few years ago while perusing the CD rack in the Wyoming Home store in downtown Cheyenne, I stumbled upon what has become one of my favorites of all time: Stampede! Western Music’s Late Golden Era. Golden, indeed. Featuring the very cream of the old crooners such as Tex Ritter, Eddy Arnold and Marty Robbins, this collection of music invariably makes me smile, sing along, and laugh heartily at the mental image of some guy in a really nice rust-colored sweater and pencil pants cracking a whip in a recording studio. At the first blast of horns and furious strings on the title track “Stampede,” I usually grab my steering wheel with a bit more gusto and tuck my chin down so that I can sing along with the low romping tune. And then I chuckle. Oh, it’s such melodramatic cowboy goodness. Have gun, will travel reads the card of a man, a knight without armor in a savage land. His fast gun for hire heeds the calling wind, a soldier of fortune is the man called….Paladin….There’s something about this song. It drives, it yearns, it jingles, it gallops…such action. It is the very plaintive essence of that Western Goodness that has, quite plainly, vanished from our far-too-advanced entertainment culture. How can one mourn something one never experienced? I do it all the time, so it must be possible. I was just a mere glimmer in my papa’s adolescent eye when all of this was going down, but it’s where I would go in a time machine, given the opportunity. Track two of the compilation, “High Noon,” boasts the rich, high-tremolo tone of Tex Ritter…wow, now there’s a voice. O to be torn ‘twixt love and duty! S’posin’ I lose my fair-haired beauty! Look at that big hand move along, nearin’ high noon..(although he pronounces it quite differently…fa-yah ha-yah’d b’yoo-tee) I don’t think there’s been a vocalist like him since. Further down the track list is another Western standard, “Cattle Call” by Eddy Arnold. His yodeling intro is altogether other-worldly, but that’s not the only yodeling you’ll hear on this record. In the spirit of high cowboy drama I’ll leave you with these lyrics from the aforementioned “Stampede” track, another one of the album’s many gems. These particular phrases are spoken in a furied bridge of the song, and usually make me wish I had a long duster coat and a pair o’ spurs… Cold black clouds like funeral shrouds roll down their icy threat, and we face to fight this raging night with odds on the side death. For a stampeding herd when its panic is stirred is a thing for a cowboy to shun. For no mortal man ever holds command when the cattle are on the run!

When New Favorite came out in 2001, that was my introduction to Alison Krauss and Union Station. Talk about feeling late to the party. I had no real concept of bluegrass, assuming it was hillbilly music like dueling banjos and that was the extent of it. But when I got my hands on New Favorite, I was so moved by what I heard. And I want to try and be specific about what I heard that caught my attention. It seemed the instrumentation in that record came together like a choir–each part was its own distinct voice–and it was beautiful. Jill LaBrack at Popmatters.com went beyond worn out words by offering this description; “Her voice is beautiful and compelling and sounds as much like hope as it does the final moments before the giving up begins.” An analysis of the lyrics reveal that this is a record dealing mostly with themes of pain and loss and regret, and yet it does sound “as much like hope as the final moments before the giving up begins.” Around the time I started listening to New Favorite, a dear friend of mine lost a son to suicide. As I watched this dad grieve, as I watched him mourn, as I watched him bow himself to the providence of God and rise up in anger toward wickedness of the enemy, I wanted to help. But what could I say? What could I give? I prayed, I spent time with he and his family, but I wanted to give this man I knew to be an introvert who often processed things alone (on his touring motor bike) something that might help. There were no words, no poems, no statements to reach deep enough into his pain in those initial days of shock. But I kept returning to the same idea. I can’t give words that will make this better. It’s too ugly right now. Maybe I can give him beauty. What can I give him that’s beautiful? I gave him New Favorite, and I told him I wanted him to have it because it was beautiful, and in this ugly season, I thought a little beauty might comfort him. A couple years later he took me for a ride on his bike and as we pulled away from the house, I heard that faint intro to New Favorite and we listened as we rode. He told me it hadn’t come out of his disc changer since I gave it to him, and that it brought him much comfort–the beauty of the record. His last best memories with his son were on that bike riding through Missouri Wine country, talking about Christ. And when he misses his son, he hops on that bike and rides out to the country graveside. And when he does, he often listens to New Favorite. It is beautiful.

WARNING: What follows may be an annoyingly gushing review by a music geek who loses all sense of perspective and dignity when a new Daniel Lanois record releases… When mixing and engineer extraordinaire Todd Robbins emailed me about the new Daniel Lanois record, I couldn’t wait. It’s been 4 years since his last proper studio recording, Shine – a record that at the time restored my faith in the power of music. For those unfamiliar with Lanois, he is the famed producer of some of pop/rock music’s most important records by Bob Dylan, Peter Gabriel, Emmy Lou Harris, and U2 (including the biggest albums of their careers, The Joshua Tree and All That You Can’t Leave Behind. He’s famous for helping these great artists dig deeper and find the soul of their work. He is also the master of electric guitar tone, helping put The Edge of U2 on the path that has made him one of rock music’s most distinctive guitarists. In between these high profile gigs, Lanois also makes his own records that are uniquely his and clearly a labor of love. Lanois is always chasing down the deepest mysteries of music, what it means, where it comes from, and even it’s ultimate destination. There’s so much folklore surrounding his unorthodox approach that it’s hard to separate fact from fiction. I’ve heard rumors of him forcing an artist to go sing their vocal track in his barn to get them out of the mindset of singing in a studio. There’s the story of him ripping Dylan’s cell phone from his hands and throwing it in a lake to make the point that if they were to make a great album together, there could be no distractions and that he needed to be completely present to the process. The result was the Grammy-winning Time Out Of Mind. It’s not hard to believe these stories since Lanois’s own music reveals an artist who is much more interested in the humanity of a performance than perfection. There is plenty of atmosphere and vibey sounds to tickle the ear that could easily degrade into mere ear candy, but Lanois never loses sight of the heart of it. Lanois’ music is not so much about technical precision as it is about a gut level emotional aesthetic. There are imperfections and some of the playing is loose, but it always feels emotional and often transcendant. I guess the best way to describe it is to simply say that Lanois means every note he sings or plays. Lyrically he’s often bordered on the mystical. Consider this from my personal favorite Lanois record, Shine. They have spoken of the river Forever bending inside the fever Of the saints who walk all night with no domain In the end the thing that keeps them walking Is your shine Your shine when they wear no coat Your shine when the feeling’s low Your shine as they labor to the new day… To me his lyrics always speak to the mystery of God and ultimate meaning. For me, the above lyric rings truer than most of what I hear on CCM radio, and that’s because I think it speaks to divine mystery without trying to reduce it. What the exact nature of Lanois’s spirituality is I’m not sure, (in an interview segment with Brian Eno on this disc, Eno elaborates on his own atheism, however Lanois talks openly of God in other interviews I’ve read) but that his music is deeply religious is undeniable. Shine also features a worship song he wrote with Bono called “Falling At Your Feet” and when I saw Lanois in concert he ended the night with a beautiful little song called “Thank You For The Day”, again written with Bono. Lanois is releasing his new record, Here Is What Is, digitally 4 months before the official release in March. The much vaunted distinctive about this release is that you can download it either as mp3 files or the actual WAV files which are the larger high quality files on actual CDs. I downloaded the WAV files last night and have been listening to it over and over during my travel day across the continent from Florida to Washington. I haven’t been able to dig in to the new album a great deal lyrically, but it’s clearly classic Lanois – mystical, arcane, and sadly beautiful. His penchant for gospel music shows up throughout in tracks like “Joy,” “This May Be The Last Time,” and “Where Will I Be”, originally recorded on Emmy Lou Harris’s Wrecking Ball. Here’s a sample lyric: The heart opens wide Like it’s never seen love And addiction stays on tight like a glove Oh where will I be Oh where will I be when that trumpet sounds But it’s really the music that takes center stage here. I think listening to Lanois’s music is like learning a language. I remember when I first heard Sufjan Stevens’s record I was aware that I didn’t have the tools to understand his music – it was something entirely different from what I’d ever heard before, and I had to learn Sufjan’s musical language before I could truly appreciate it. Lanois is similar, but whereas Sufjan’s musical language seems to me to be more about arrangements and his lyrical sense of irony, Lanois’s is more of a sonic language. It’s about tones, wavelengths, soulful performances, and feeling the thing. I’ve heard that Lanois has talked at length about how the high frequencies of modern mixes – the sizzle that radio likes so much – distracts him from the spiritual energy of music. My understanding is that he feels that the lower frequencies are best suited for conveying the spiritual power of music. “The race to the extension of the high frequency part of the spectrum is choking the shadows of the bass… if you light your picture too bright you will lose your shadows” (This is an interesting analogy to me for lyric writing as well). His record “Shine” is mixed very dark and warm and it ruined my ears for other kinds of mixes! He might be onto something. My first impression of Here Is What Is is that it’s mixed a bit brighter than Shine and seems a little groovier. My good friend Todd Robbins treated us to a Daniel Lanois show in Minneapolis a couple years ago where an industrial jam band named Tortoise opened for him and then backed him up for his set. There were two drummers and the songs grooved hard. I would venture to guess that tour influenced this record, with at least one song featuring two drum tracks. The arrangements sound like what I remember from the show. From what I understand, Here Is What Is is part of a film he’s making (see trailer here) about his process of making music, so interspersed throughout are bits of conversation between Lanois and legendary producer Brian Eno (U2, The Talking Heads, Coldplay, Paul Simon, among others). The track titled “Beauty” captures this exchange between them: LANOIS: I’m trying to make a film…about beauty itself… about the source of the art rather than everything that surrounds the art… ENO: …What would really be interesting for people to see [in your film] is how beautiful things grow out of shit, because nobody ever believes that… Everybody thinks that Beethoven had his string quartets completely in his head, that it somehow appeared formed in his head… and all he had to do was write them down… But what would really be a lesson that everyone could learn is that things come out of nothing… the tiniest seed in the right situation turns into the most beautiful forest. And then the most promising seed in the wrong situation turns into nothing… and I think this would be important for people to understand because it gives people confidence in their own lives to know this is how things work… If you walk around with the idea that there are some people so gifted and have these wonderful things in their head, but you’re not one of them – you’re just a normal person who could never do anything like that – then you live a different kind of life. You could have another kind of life where you say, “Well I know that things come from nothing very much, start from unpromising beginnings, and I’m an unpromising beginning, and I could start something…” Another track called “Sacred and Secular” captured this conversation: “To think of sacred and secular being apart… it’s all just always, y’know, praise for me. I can never see [music] another way… it’s always this…” Lanois says, “The pedal steel is my favorite instrument. It takes me to a sacred place. I call it my church in a suitcase…”, and his playing does reflect something of ecstasy to me. A friend of mine joked after seeing him live that he felt like he needed to smoke a cigarette after. I remember being moved to tears numerous times when I saw him. Whatever is happening in Lanois’ music, for those who connect with it it is something sublime, emotional, intimate, and maybe even holy. Lanois calls what he does “soul-mining” and I can feel his music stir my deeper waters. Here Is What Is is at it’s best when Lanois’ playing takes center stage – whether it’s a quiet pedal steel song or a searing elecrtic guitar over a deep groove. It’s worship to me. Obviously it is for Lanois, too. From his keynote address at South by Southwest: “I practice and put my heart and soul into every note my passion becomes the same as the one i felt at 9 years old i invite everyone here this morning to ignite — re-ignite — or just plain old turn up the flame in what you believe in and get to the top of the mountain that you see invention is in your brain — and that never ending commodity is in the bottom of your heart — it’s called passion Danny lanois is going down one more time with coal dust in his eyes going down — soul mining” You can download Here Is What Is here: www.daniellanois.com For the uninitiated, you may want to go to iTunes and start to learn Lanois’ musical language from more accessible albums like Acadie and Shine as well as Emmy Lou Harris’s masterpierce Wrecking Ball and U2’s The Joshua Tree. I believe it’s well worth the money as you find yourself swimming in music that is nearly as deep and dark as the mysteries it tries to point to.

—Andy Goldsworthy Not too long ago here in the Rabbit Room we followed a thread dealing with creative intent, and talked at length about the artist’s responsibility to mean something with their art, and the beholder’s responsibility to look for it. It gave rise to the observation that sometimes beauty, simplicity or playfulness is meaning enough. I’m not sure what Andy Goldsworthy “means” with his art, but it is beautiful, simple and playful–and it’s among my favorites to look at. Andy Goldsworthy, born in 1956, is a British artist/photographer who literally uses the earth as his canvas. From Japan to Scotland to the US to the North Pole to the Australian Outback, Goldsworthy travels around, picks up things he finds on the earth’s floor or stuck to the earth’s walls, rearranges them and in so doing shows us things we’ve seen a million times in ways we’ve never seen them before. And when you look at his photography it often feels like you’re seeing icicles, leaves, feathers or rocks for the first time. His work is mystifying, and I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed just looking at what he creates (or maybe “co-opts” is a better word) from his natural surroundings. He’s like M.C. Escher stuck in the woods with no paper or pencil. CBD oil and capsules Hemp oil – H Drop UK. Most major booksellers carry his work, and if you’re looking for a new coffee table book, any of his collections will captivate your imagination for a good long time to come. Here he is in his own words, along with a few more images. “I enjoy the freedom of just using my hands and ‘found’ tools—a sharp stone, the quill of a feather, thorns. I take the opportunities each day offers: if it is snowing, I work with snow, at leaf-fall it will be with leaves; a blown-over tree becomes a source of twigs and branches. I stop at a place or pick up a material because I feel that there is something to be discovered. Here is where I can learn. ” “Looking, touching, material, place and form are all inseparable from the resulting work. It is difficult to say where one stops and another begins. The energy and space around a material are as important as the energy and space within. The weather–rain, sun, snow, hail, mist, calm–is that external space made visible. When I touch a rock, I am touching and working the space around it. It is not independent of its surroundings, and the way it sits tells how it came to be there.”

God wants us to jump headfirst into total reliance on who He is and what He says about reality. When we plug that cable into the power outlet, we’d better watch out. Life change happens, first in us and then, as others connect to God through us, it happens in them as well. Christianity is meant to be spread by contact – Lewis called it “a good infection.” Christianity is a choice of the will: Am I going to rely on God and His promises? Or will I exercise faith in what I feel, see, think, hear, experience? That’s the bottom line. One choice will produce life and light and power and change in us, causing us more and more to be in experience who we really are in Christ. The other choice leads to a waste. 1Cor 3 is a sobering warning to anyone who tries to build on the foundation of Christ in himself with the wrong building materials. Only faith, reliance, and trust build with gold, silver, precious stones. Anything less – hedonism, sin, and even good works done from mere fleshly effort – is to build with wood, hay, and stubble. The man himself shall be saved, yet as a refugee escaping through the flames with nothing to show for the one earthly lifetime we’re given for all eternity. Wood, hay, and stubble will burn up in the Consuming Fire. This temporal “experiment” will never be repeated; we have one single lifetime to build a Devil-may-care reliance on God and His Word, because in eternity we will be able to see Him face to face. “Blessed are they which have not seen, and yet believe.” The choice is clearly laid out in Scripture. We can trust God in total reliance – or not. We can limp along struggling with the same besetting sins year after year after year, never really addressing that it’s our unbelief and fear keeping us on that hamster-wheel of try-sin-repent-try-sin-repent. The Devil discreetly laughs and, like the Witch in The Silver Chair, keeps throwing that sweet-smelling magic powder on the fire, thrum-thrum-thrumming his hypnotic rhythms, and cooing, “There’s really no power in Christ. It’s all just a dream. See? You just sinned again, you sinner. Interpret reality by your experience. You’re a sinner, unholy, not a new creation. Where is this ‘new man’? Your old man has come off the Cross…” Thrum-thrum-thrum. “There is no Aslan.” Those condemning, limiting voices in our heads come from a single source; they are the subtly enchanting arrows of the evil one saying, “There is no Narnia, no Overworld, no sky, no sun, no Aslan,” as they drive home to the heart through our lack of battle-vigilance. And so we fall under his spell, where his Romans 7 deathtrap is the only reality we believe in. We’ve got to stamp out that drugged fire of the Liar with our bare feet like Puddleglum continually until it lessens to gain some clarity both for ourselves and for those around us. We combat his lies by saying, “As it is written…” and relying on those Facts, period. Puddleglum defiantly says, “…I’m going to stand by the play-world.” We stand by the unseen “play-world,” damning the Devil’s lies because God says Narnia is Real, and wake up. This isn’t condemnation, a works-trip, or a prompt to more effort; in fact, it’s the opposite, a desire that we as God’s people should take Him literally and walk in the recognition that He cannot lie. That’s what He is looking for. What I’m saying isn’t new; it’s straight-up Bible, no-chaser, repeated through the centuries by countless saints of Jesus Christ. The “Christ died to pay our sin-debt” gospel that God merely imputes righteousness to our “account,” is a half-gospel. It’s a neat little side-step to interpret reality by experience rather than by the Word; it short-circuits God’s love from coming through us. It says nothing of the imparted power that God has placed in us; that power in us is His very own Self. Jesus died to save us from our sins themselves, from being a selfish, sinning kind of people; he didn’t merely release us from the consequences due our sins. He reversed the curse and made us into a holy people. The real Gospel is a radically life-altering truth that we are to receive by faith and then walk in by faith. Jesus became sin for me so that I could become the righteousness of God in Him. As a result of Romans 6, the Father and Son have made their abode in us by the Holy Spirit. That’s power in its most basic and pure form – God, in us, ready to live through us if we just rely. That’s why Paul says “the Word of God…is exercising its [superhuman] power in those who adhere to and trust in and rely on it” (1Th 2:13, Amp). When we rely, the Lord makes us “to increase and abound in love toward one another, and toward all men…to the end that he may establish your hearts unblameable in holiness…” (1Th 3:12,13, KJV). Faith connects us to the limitless power of Christ in us, causing us to increase and abound in love toward one another. “For God hath not called us unto uncleanness, but unto holiness…” (1Th 4:7,8, KJV). Faith connects us to Power; that Power increases Love, and Love, if we continue in reliance on the Spirit, loves God and neighbor. But we’ve got to keep the chain in proper order, the horse before the cart. Much of modern Christianity is either about striving to behave “properly,” or mere intellectual assent to ideas about God. Legalism, or “grace” where there is a lot of the Devil’s condemning self-talk allowed in our consciousness resulting in very slow life-change. That’s not what Paul preached. His message was Power-in-weakness, a desertion of flesh-effort for radical reliance on God’s indwelling Holy Spirit to produce extreme life-change. If we concentrate on reliance, the rest follows. A branch doesn’t bear fruit by exertion. It trusts specifically in the Tree’s ability to give it all that it needs, resting in that, and the flow of sap through it just happens. Our behavior follows our willed reliance on our real identity. When we listen to the devil’s lies we live from them; “As a man thinks in his heart, so is he.” God calls us to a life of power, adventure, risk. We are kings, priests, holy, blameless before God, one spirit with the Lord. Dead to sin. Dead to Law (what a relief – Christ is now our inner Law of love). New creations. The old is gone, the new has come. We put off the old man and put on the new by relying on these things as Fact. “Reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin, but alive unto God” (Rom 6:11, KJV). We count it as a done-deal and stand by Aslan, stand by the play-world and claim it as our own by faith. Let God be true, and every man (and especially the Devil) a liar.

So let’s make this fun. How many bizarre ways can you interpret things to be about the Gospel, Christ, or Christianity in general? We’ll give it a week and whoever comes up with what I decide is the funniest, most obscure, most far-fetched, or plain bizarre Jesus-centric interpretation of a movie, book, or song gets a free CD from the Rabbit Room Store of my choosing, and an official title of Theolo-visonary™. I’ll start (and prevent you from using the obvious): Pan’s Labyrinth: young girl holds to her beliefs even when the world considers her foolish and when she’s ‘martyred’, she’s given a crown and a throne and welcomed home as the daughter of the King. Harry Potter(SPOILERISH): young man of prophecy must accept his destiny to die for his friends and be resurrected to save the world from the Evil One. Meat Loaf’s “For Cryin’ Out Loud”: This song has always sounded almost like a prayer to me: (some excerpts)I was lost till you were found But I never knew how far down I was falling before I reached the bottomI was damned but you were saved And I never knew how enslaved I was kneeling in the chains of my masterI could laugh but you could cry And I never knew just how high I was flying with you right above meFor taking in the rain when I’m feeling so dry For giving me the answers when I’m asking you why My oh my, for that, I thank youFor taking in the sun when I’m feeling so cold For giving me a child when my body is old Don’t you know, for that, I need youFor coming to my room when you know I’m alone For finding me a highway, for driving me home You’ve got to know, for that, I serve youFor pulling me away when I’m starting to fall For revving me up when I’m starting to stall And all in all, for that, I want youFor taking and for giving and for playing the game For praying for my future in the days that remain Oh Lord, for that, I hold youBut most of all, for cryin’ out loud For that, I love you That’s right, I just pulled out Meat Loaf. Beat that. Your turn.

If you ever have the opportunity to visit Jerusalem, and you find yourself at the church of the Holy Sepulcher—one of the possible sites for Jesus’ tomb—and if you look up and to your right before entering, you’ll see an old wooden ladder on a ledge resting against a window. Its story requires that you know something about the church itself. For centuries six different Christian groups have each claimed ownership of the church. This dispute led the Ottoman Sultan, in 1757, to issue an edict known as the “Status Quo,” which defined which parts of the church belonged to which groups. So, for example, one group had possession of the floors while another had possession of the domed roof (which led the Israeli government to put up trusses when the integrity of the domed roof began to fail because the owners of the floor would not permit the owners of the roof to use their floor to erect scaffolding to repair the roof.) Some historians say that this little ladder set the precedent for all this. In the early 1800’s, Armenian monks, who held the rights to the outer windows, set out to repair them. But this caused a problem one historian described this way: “At some point the Armenians put out the ladder for the purpose of doing work on the windows, [and] the Greeks protested that the ladder was resting on their portion (the outer ledge). The Armenians refused to remove the ladder – hence the frozen reality.” Over the years, the heated dispute has cooled, but the ladder remains in place—visible in photos dating back as far as the 1800’s! Here’s one from 1857: The ladder stands as a testimony to the “Status Quo”—no one dares remove it. (Monks make replacement ladders when the existing ones rot.) It’s ironic, considering what that church memorializes. We can go so far from the hope of Jesus as our Immanuel—“God with us”—when our practice goes from heartfelt faith and joy in the risen Christ to keeping the Status Quo. Monks struggle to cling to where He once was, quibbling over a ladder, yet we seem to lose the glorious message of where He now is because the tomb is empty. We do some strange things in the name of religion. We all have ladders—practices we impose on ourselves or that have been imposed on us. (We don’t just throw away, but burn our “secular” music. In hard times, we search for the sin God is disciplining us for until we name a dozen. With disappointment, we analyze all the reasons we didn’t deserve God’s blessing (we used a credit card last month; we skipped our quite times; we forgot to send a relative a birthday gift, and then got angry because they seemed to expect one). Somewhere between the emptying of Jesus’ tomb and the filling of modern churches we have propped a lot of ladders against a lot of windows—ladders which have stood for generations. But over time, as many of us can verify, we forget why they’re there, even though we labor to maintain them. And our “religion” becomes devoid of any true joy in Christ, and instead becomes the means by which we keep an “angry God” at bay and other Christians from suspecting we need a Savior. It is an age-old problem—forgetting what Jesus had come to do and why He had come to do it. The good news is Jesus did not forget. Jesus knew what He had come to do. He knew why He had come to do it. And He knew how we would be inclined to receive it. I have to imagine that there were times in the history of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher when the focus of the discussions centered on that ladder. Monks arguing their points… forgetting that the more important issue was why, if the tomb was empty, could they not be united in their joy? Outside the church is a monument to our unwillingness to delight in that joy which sometimes seems to be lost. But inside the church is a monument to the empty tomb—the promise that the church has been washed whiter than snow. And as long as this is the case, that joy will never be truly lost, even though it may be lost on us.

A few years ago I decided to stop talking about writing a book and actually wrote one. If you had asked me before writing it what I thought the hardest part of the process would be, I’d have told you the physical, butt-in-chair, writing of it. Turns out I was wrong. For me, that was the easy part. Then I might have said that the endless editing and rewriting was surely the hardest part, but once again I’d have been wrong. The hardest part of this entire process, the part that makes me feel like I’m trying to pound my head through a wall a foot thick is the effort to get it published, the selling of it, not like art, but like a cheap commodity that needs a witty sales pitch, a wide demographic and a catchy jingle. As many writers do, I wrongly believed in the fairy tale of “if you write it, the publishers will come” but I’ve learned the hard way over the past couple of years that that is about as true as the tale of Whitey Cheekum and the Golden Booger (trust me, you don’t want to know). The trouble is that the sheer amount of bad literature being produced is staggering, and the path to publication passes beneath the watchful eyes of the gatekeepers: the literary agents. An agent has to sift through a wasteland of dreck to uncover those one or two manuscripts that will hopefully, one day, find their way to publication, bookstore shelves, and at long last into the readers’ hands. The problem is convincing someone that you alone, out of the multitude, are that gem. The volume of manuscripts these agents have to sort their way through requires them to streamline the way they separate the wheat from the chaff. One of the ways this is achieved is through the query letter: a brief one page summation of your book that must be sufficiently clever, literate, and interesting to convince an agent in seconds that your book is worth reading. This is often compared to what you might read on the inside jacket cover of a book. Sounds easy. Trust me, it is anything but. Even if you manage to craft the perfect query letter, your book is still a long way from sold. If an agent is interested he might request your first five pages, or first chapter or some other sampling of your work. Based on that, more might be requested, representation might be offered, or more likely, you’ll just receive a polite “No Thanks” in a form letter. That’s what I’ve been dealing with for the past couple of years and it is unbelievably frustrating and depressing. To date I’ve sent out somewhere around forty letters to forty different agents and have been rejected by them all, most with the dreaded form letters. A few have sent encouraging notes and a few have requested to read more but eventually they all turned me down. The last round of submissions and rewrites left me emotionally and mentally exhausted and I haven’t had the gumption to get in the ring again for several months. Now, I’ve heard time and time again that you have to simply keep plugging away at it, and I intend to. The Rabbit Room was envisioned as a forum to discuss stories and I’m going to use it to do just that. I’m going to get back in the ring and start the process again. I’m going to blog my progress (or lack thereof) here on the Rabbit Room. Hopefully, some of you will find it of interest and maybe even learn a thing or two and hopefully, it will hold me accountable and force me to stick with it. The first thing I am going to do is dig out my old query letter and see how it’s aged. I’ll post it here once I’ve located it and we’ll take it from there.

Music sinks into me differently than books or movies. I’m very picky with it, and prone to listen to one thing over and over again rather than gobbling up lots of different music. I treat music like I treat menus: if I know I’m going to like the chicken chimichanga, why order something else? So rather than provide you with a straight-up list of favorite albums (I doubt I could come up with ten new albums that I’ve listened to this year), I’m going to list some of my favorite musical moments of 2007, in no particular order. James Taylor, One Man Band. James Taylor is one of the Great Ones in the world of songwriting. I’ve seen him live one other time, and I’ve watched his DVDs with awe, not just at how good he is at what he does, but how good his band is. He’s played with basically the same band for years and years, and they sound like it. When I heard that he’d be at the Ryman with naught but his guitar and a piano player, I bought tickets immediately. I wanted to see how well one of the Great Ones could pull off a show without all the bells and whistles. It was remarkable. His playing is so nuanced and solid, and of course his voice is nearly flawless live–but to my surprise there were still bells and whistles, and they were part of what made the show so good. During the songs movies played on a screen behind him, old films from his childhood with pumpkins and bicycles and images that fit the nostalgic vibe of songs like “Copperline” and “Walking Man”; he told stories about old songs and showed pictures of some of the people who inspired them; once he played along with a pre-recorded virtual choir. Brilliant. I walked out of there humbled and fired up about finding ways to make my own shows better. Playing the Waterdeep song on the Christmas tour Don and Lori Chaffer of Waterdeep fame came to our Christmas show in Kansas City and we surprised them with a cover of a song called “I’m Still Here”. It reminded me how good Waterdeep was/is, and was a sweet-spirited way for everyone on the tour to honor Don and Lori. Hearing Allen Levi play Again, on the Christmas tour this year. When we were in Birmingham a kind southern gentleman named Allen Levi, who’s written more songs than I’ve eaten cheeseburgers, obliged our request to join us in the round. He played a song about Santa being set up at the mall right next to Victoria’s Secret, how they’re both dressed in their best red and white, making promises of endless delight that they can’t keep. It was nothing short of amazing to see the way he took that adult topic and charmed the audience (and all of us on the stage) in a way that not only got a lot of laughs but warmed us and reminded us of the truth. Thank you, Allan. The Weepies, Say I Am You My favorite discovery of last year. I first heard the Weepies during a game of WePod, in which everybody in the van takes turns picking a song that matches the chosen topic. I don’t remember what the topic was, but Ben’s friend Emmett played “Take It From Me” and I was a goner. Great songs, and a sweet, happy sound. Favorite songs, in case you want to take my word for it on iTunes: “Take It From Me”, “Stars”, “Gotta Have You”. Hem Ben’s been listening to this band for years, so I had heard bits and pieces. I finally bought Rabbit Songs and am glad I did. My favorite songs: “Sailor” and “Leave Me Here”. Oh, man. Fernando Ortega, In the Shadow of Your Wings I can’t recommend this record highly enough. Fernando’s put out a lot of excellent records, but something special happened with this one. Recorded by the great Gary Paczosa (Alison Krauss, Mindy Smith, Nickel Creek–ahem–Andrew Peterson), this album is intimate, grand, and beautiful. It’s the first thing I play on Sunday mornings, and just yesterday I jogged to it (which I realize is weird in light of its mellowness) at sunset here at the Warren and was so moved that my eyes watered. Every song is a winner, so just go ahead and get the whole thing. The Door, Jill Phillips Jill’s Nobody’s Got it all Together came out last year. It’s an excellent album, and I’m not just saying that because of the stellar BGVs on the song “Square Peg”. The last song on the record, “The Door”, has long been one of my favorites, but I remember listening to it on a long drive with my family a few weeks ago and being nearly overcome by it. Hearing Jill’s voice belt out that last chorus knocks me out every time. But don’t stop there. The whole record is great. Randall Goodgame at the Army base I had a very patriotic year. We got to see the shuttle take off (did I mention that Pat Forrester, the mission specialist, brought some of my records up with him? I will never stop finding ways to insert that fact into conversations), Ben and I played for the White House Christian Fellowship, and Goodgame and I played at a U.S. Army base in the Carolinas. I loved having the opportunity to play for the troops, but I found out pretty quickly that without a band, my music doesn’t exactly…groove. Goodgame on the other hand? He’s not afraid to channel his inner soul singer. The troops listened with barely disguised apathy to my songs, but when Goodgame stepped up to the mic to sing “Army of Angels”, or “Susan Coats’s Pants”, or “Sweet Aileen”, the crowd basically went nuts. His music brought such light and joy into these weary soldiers’ faces I just stood there in awe. I’m so thankful to have had the chance to play for those men and women, and thankful that they didn’t heckle me off the stage. I’m also thankful to call Goodgame a friend, what with that inner jive daddy knocking around inside him. Skye singing “Over the Rainbow” My daughter fell in love with Dorothy this year. Here’s a link to a YouTube video of her being all cutesy. Thanks to Ron Block my wife and I were able to see one of the best bands of our time play at the arena here in Nashville. They’re a remarkable band, equally talented across the board, and you’ll love them whether or not you’re a country/bluegrass fan. Great music is great music. Alison sings a song on her newest record called “Country Boy” that makes me convulse every time I hear it. Ben Shive Concert Jill and Andy Gullahorn planned a special Ben Shive Solo Concert for the last day of the Christmas tour. After soundcheck the whole tour sat on the front pews of the empty auditorium and forced Ben to play a sampling of his songs. It was staggering to hear how many great–great–songs he’s written. One after another he played, and we kept thinking of and requesting more. Hopefully this is the year his record will be finished. Erik Tilling We had a great tour in Sweden last Spring, accompanied by Erik Tilling and a rascally pianist named Hektor. Erik’s gentle spirit and great musicianship was a huge relief to us, because we knew we would be doing a week of shows that would’ve felt like a month had his music been lame. At one show someone translated his songs to me quietly as he sang, and the lyrics were potent and simple and full of truth. The Finn Brothers/Neil Finn I’ve been told by basically all my friends that I should listen to Neil Finn (of Crowded House fame). Finally I succumbed, and was glad. Two songs, in case you’re visiting iTunes: “Won’t Give In” by the Finn Brothers, and “She Will Have Her Way” by Neil Finn. The Innocence Mission Their hymns record is beautiful. It plays right after Fernando on Sunday mornings. Their new record, which I don’t know nearly as well yet, was reviewed in the Rabbit Room here. Jeremy Casella, RCVRY I was so proud of Jeremy when I heard this record. It sounds like he came into his own on this melodic, artful album. Paul Simon, Surprise In the liner notes it says, “Produced by Paul Simon. Sonic Landscape by Brian Eno.” When I read that I rolled my eyes. “What the heck is a ‘sonic landscape’?” I grumbled. But then I listened to the album and had to admit that, well, there was a sonic landscape. I hope I’m making music half this cool and thoughtful when I’m 107 years old. Seriously, though, whether or not you agree with Simon’s take on things, he has made another musically beautiful album full of songs that actually say something. Pink Floyd, A Momentary Lapse of Reason I’m just including this one because I recently found it in a bargain bin and listened to it for the first time since high school. I loved, loved this album–long, beautiful, guitar solos, creepy-cool sounds, and one of the best album covers, ever. I distinctly remember listening to this record while lying on my bed with the shelf speakers on either side of my head, geeking out at the, uh, sonic landscape. Andy Gullahorn, Reinventing the Wheel Of course I have to include the other Captain Courageous. Andy G’s best record to date, with songs that make me seriously consider quitting this whole songwriting sham I have going. Jason Gray, All the Lovely Losers Jason is great at what he does. He tells a whopper of a story, is gentle of spirit and wise, has a great singing voice, and thinks deeply and carefully about his ministry. It has been a thrill seeing my kids singing his music in our house lately, right along with George Harrison and Rich Mullins. If you haven’t yet listened to Jason’s music, be sure and check out his newest record. I’m running out of steam here. But I have to also mention Sara Groves’s huge part in the Christmas tour this year, and how moving her songs were to me every night. The same could be said of Andrew Osenga. Not to mention the great times I had on the road with Michael Card, or playing “The Howling” at the Rich Mullins tribute concert.

Some of the best books I read this year, in no particular order. The Road, Cormac McCarthy I read McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses earlier this year and was wrecked by it, and this was no different. Don’t be thrown by the fact that it’s an Oprah pick–this is no ladies’ luncheon read. It’s apocalyptic, eerie, and almost unbearably sad, but with an ending that more than makes up for it. A Sacred Sorrow, Michael Card Michael has become a good friend, but that’s not why I recommend this. His last album, The Hidden Face of God was a record about lament, and he paid me the biggest honor one songwriter can pay another by recording one of my songs for it (“The Silence of God”). I traveled with Michael several times last year, and each night while he taught the audience about the lost language of lament, I hung on every word. I felt the same way when I read this book. One of my favorite Card quotes: “Nowhere in all of scripture does God ever say, ‘How dare you talk to me like that.'” He can handle our complaints, and our tears are the pathway to worship. Look for this one in the Rabbit Room store later this year (I hope). Gilead, Marilynne Robinson Not just one of my favorite books of the year, but of my life. Thanks to Jonathan Rogers for the hearty recommendation over a cheeseburger at lunch. For a fuller discussion, read the Rabbit Room review here. Devil in the White City, Erik Larson One part fascinating history of one of my favorite cities (Chicago) and one part murder mystery. I have worn the Captains Courageous out talking about this book. I’m a fan of creative nonfiction (books like The Perfect Storm, Into the Wild, Under the Banner of Heaven), and this is one of the best I’ve read. I just finished another Erik Larson book, Thunderstruck, which I also really liked. Window Poems, Wendell Berry I’m not one for poetry. I know I’m supposed to like it, but it usually leaves me wondering what the big deal is. I’m a fan of Tennyson and, of course, the poet laureate of my generation, Shel Silverstein. Because of my affection for his novels, I took to reading Berry’s poems on airplanes, and occasionally on the front porch here at the Warren. I learned that you can’t breeze through a poem and expect to get it. You have to read it aloud, and you have to read it more than once. Better yet, memorize it. Window Poems looks and feels like a book of Wendell Berry poems should. It’s illustrated, the poems aren’t dense or abstruse, so it’s the perfect short book of poems for a person who doesn’t get poetry. Best read in the woods with a pipe. The Father Brown Omnibus, G.K. Chesterton Another gift from Jason Gray. The book is old and is about four inches thick. It smells like a used book store, which next to pot roast is the best smell on earth. If you have a hankering for the crime-ridden, cobbled streets of foggy London, then let the priest/detective Father Brown be your guide. Chesterton spins a great story, and he surprises with glimmers of wisdom that make me feel like the kind old gentleman is winking at me through his monocle. No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Alexander McCall Smith More detective goodness from Jason Gray. I razzed him about this one because it sounds like another one of those Oprah books. But I read this one and the next one in quick succession. They’re short reads, charming, wholesome, and again, full of wisdom. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J.K. Rowling This one has been discussed here too. Rowling’s over-blabbing about the books notwithstanding, I still think this epic story will stand the test of time. I read the first Harry Potter book before it was controversial or cool to read Harry Potter, and I looked eagerly forward to each next episode, wondering all the while what all the fuss from the church was about. Having now written the first of a fantasy series, I’m all the more amazed by Rowling’s gift. It’s not an easy thing to do, writing a book–let alone writing a book knowing that literally millions of people will be reading it, griping about it, scrutinizing it, demonizing it, or over-spiritualizing it. The real feat was that she pulled it off. The last book wasn’t perfect, but the finale was for me extremely satisfying. Read the Rabbit Room discussion here. And you can read the post Outing Dumbledore here. Life of Pi, Yann Martel Another great story. Read the Rabbit Room discussion here. The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini I didn’t want to read this one. It was hard for me to get excited about kites in Afghanistan. Needless to say, that’s not what the book was about, really. I hope you find time to read this before you see the movie. I’m doubtful that the story will translate well to film, as I’m doubtful about most such adaptations. The Dangerous Book for Boys, Conn and Hal Iggulden I bought this for my sons, and they have since learned how to make a paper airplane that flies way farther than any of the ones I made out of old church bulletins when I was a kid. They also know how to make real arrows, how to play poker (but don’t tell their mom), and how to build a tree house. I wish I’d had this when I was a kid. Reaching for the Invisible God, Philip Yancey Really good book. I got two song ideas from it for the new record (All Things New and Invisible God). Much obliged, Yancey. Orthodoxy, G.K. Chesterton I don’t even know what to say about this one. I’m pretty sure I read it last year, but it was so earth-shaking I had to include it. It begs to be read more than once. Not five minutes after I read the last page I started over, partly because the ideas are so rich they need to be read again, and partly because the prose is so stirring. Like The Great Divorce by Lewis, it’s a great book with a lame title. Don’t be thrown off by it. Chesterton and Lewis were both masters at making complex ideas easy for us boneheads.

2008 beckons. For many years I’ve reserved the week between Christmas and New Years Day as a week to think and plan. It’s a time I use for reflection and for measuring life; a time for gathering up the broken pieces of painful choices, unfortunate detours, and missed opportunities. Further and on a more positive note, it’s a time for celebrating the blessings and joys that God has provided, despite the fact that I too often get in the way of His plans. Sitting in my home office last week, up to my eyebrows in constructing goals for the “big” picture of my life, I received a phone call from my son. He sounded slightly out of breath and his tone was urgent. Did he have a lead for new large account? Surely he was calling with an idea for making more money in 2008 than in 2007? Maybe he’s calling to discuss the weight loss and healthy eating plan we are starting in January. (He thinks he’s unacceptably overweight because he gained five pounds this year. At 24, little does he know how good pictures taken now will look in 25 years.) “Why is he interrupting me now?” I thought to myself. “Surely he knows how busy I am.” “Dad,” he said, “You’ve got to see these trees.” Then without allowing time for my response, he proceeded to tell me how awesome the trees looked after the overnight frost, describing in detail how the frost clung to the branches, like a winter wonderland. He gave me detailed instructions on where to find the coolest views. Breathlessly, he told me that the trees were even more beautiful than the pink and orange sunset we saw on the way to Grandma’s the other night. It was time to decide, though there really was no decision to be made. I could patronize my son and shake him from the phone line like a dog shaking off water, returning to my austere goals exercise. Or I could thank him, question him about his discovery, as if he were among the most important people in my life (he is), and thank him for thinking of me, and caring to call and share such a beautiful thing. I don’t always choose correctly, but on this day, I did. Moreover, I left the house–trading the warmth of my office for the biting Nebraska cold–to snap some beautiful pictures, two of which accompany this article. For many years, I’ve had an attractive picture hanging in my office. It features a full moon at dusk, hanging high above the water, shining down on a lonely sailboat. The somewhat trite caption reads, “Success, It’s a Journey, Not a Destination.” As I endeavor to plan for the “big” things, Father God, please let me remember the most important moments in life are the “little things.” There’s More. More here, and more there. Mark L. read this post about the Andrew Peterson/Pierce Pettis song “More” and responded with a link to a creative, thoughtful post he made in his own personal blog. It was posted around the time I received the tree phone call from my son. With his permission I’ve reprinted it here in The Rabbit Room. As Evie Coates suggests in her White Wolf on Wyoming Avenue article, God provides serendipitous links of happenstance in our respective lives that provide us with exactly what we need at a given point in time, be it a picture of frost on the trees, the words of a patron of The Rabbit Room, or maybe both. Sometimes they mesh. I began this article without any knowledge that these random tapestries of life would somehow be stitched together in this piece of writing. Somehow, they have. Mark L. pulled passages from the song “More,” and linked them with quotes taken from a variety of pop culture icons and regular folks. _____________________________________________________________________ “Why do I have three Super Bowl rings and still think there is something greater out there for me? A lot of people would say, ‘This is what it is. I reached my goal, my dream …’ Me, I think, God, it’s got to be more than this. I mean, this isn’t … what it’s all cracked up to be.” – Tom Brady on 60 Minutes This is not the end here at this grave This is just a hole that someone made Every hole was made to fill And every heart can feel it still– Our nature hates a vacuum “It felt big. It felt lonely and big. You’re in a hotel and you’re like, okay well, I’m sitting in this big suite with an Oscar, and I still don’t have a life. What is wrong with me?” – Nicole Kidman reflecting on the night she won her 2003 Best Actress Oscar This is not the hardest part of all This is just the seed that has to fall All our lives we till the ground Until we lay our sorrows down And watch the sky for rain “I try to fill the emptiness deep inside me with Cheetos, but I am still depressed. Only now my fingers are stained orange. I am blue. And I am orange.” – Karen Salmansohn, Author There is more More than all this pain More than all the falling down And the getting up again There is more More than we can see From our tiny vantage point In this vast eternity “I thought to myself, ‘Is that it?'” – Trot Nixon after winning the 2004 World Series A thing resounds when it rings true Ringing all the bells inside of you Like a golden sky on a summer eve Your heart is tugging at your sleeve And you cannot say why There must be more “I am seriously hurting over a recent breakup … I feel empty. I feel sad, and angry. I’m not feeling happy whatsoever. My life is at a very positive point right now. Things are going well for me. But I don’t want to continue to succeed alone. I can’t even think of my interests at this point to even keep me busy, I feel somewhat desperate … any advice?” – Brighteyezinva, Yahoo! Answers post There is more More than we can stand Standing in the glory Of a love that never ends There is more More than we can guess More and more, forever more And not a second less “I tried everything. Parties, women, buying expensive jewelry and gadgets, and nothing helped. There was no peace. I had everything the world has to offer, but no peace, no joy, just emptiness inside.” – Deion “Prime Time” Sanders There is more than what the naked eye can see Clothing all our days with mystery Watching over everything Wilder than our wildest dreams Could ever dream to be There is more… (Words in Italics are lyrics to the song “More” by Andrew Peterson and Pierce Pettis)

This is my first-ever attempt at an end-of-year favorites list. Some of these were actually released prior to 2007, but this is the year I stumbled on them. One of the many blessings of marriage is that it teaches you how to love and understand (or at least try to understand) a person who is very different from yourself. Jamie and I have loads in common, but our brains could hardly have been wired more differently. For example: –I’m a singer/songwriter who could talk about music for hours (and do). –Jamie’s only ever bought one CD in her life, and it was the Titanic soundtrack. –I’m a movie junkie. –Jamie falls asleep with her head on my lap in every movie we watch, even when I rent something girly. If she does stay awake, she forgets everything about the movie within 36 hours. –Not only am I a voracious reader of novels, I have (wonder of wonders) written a book. –Jamie doesn’t like to read. Well, that’s not entirely fair. Before we had kids she read quite a bit. Nowadays, she reads books but they have pictures and are about the Poky Little Puppy or Olivia the pig. Don’t get me wrong–she’s a really smart lady. But different things light her up, like good conversation over a mug of hot chocolate, or kick-boxing classes at the YMCA, or teaching kids to read. She handles the checking account, is so organized her friends have often suggested she go into business, and is the best teacher I could ever ask for my children. Folks are usually surprised to hear that she’s not terribly into music, especially in light of her former career as my background vocalist, but it’s true: she never really wanted to be a singer. She wanted to be a mom and a teacher, and by the grace of God that’s exactly what she is (not to mention a great cook, a great wife, and a great jogging partner). I say all that to say this. Her sensitivity level is much higher than mine when it comes to language, violence, and intensity in movies. So in light of the demographic that surely exists in my listenership, to spare any of you from being exposed to something you might find objectionable, I offer (mainly for movies) the Jamie Rating System: JWAOIW= Jamie Would Approve Of Its Wholesomeness JWEIBIMRHD = Jamie Would Endure It, But It Might Ruin Her Day JWREAC = Jamie Would Rather Eat A Cat After some thought, these have been abbreviated to: JWA = Jamie Would Approve (great for the whole family) JPW = Jamie Probably Wouldn’t (not for kids) MEOW = Jamie Would Rather Eat A Cat (for film aficionados only) Here we go, in no particular order. No Country for Old Men 3:10 to Yuma Bridge to Terabithia Reign Over Me Honorable mention: I Am Legend, Amazing Grace, The Bourne Ultimatum, Michael Clayton Coming up next, the list of favorite books read in 2007… —— Addendum: I just watched Once tonight, and loved it.  It’s set in Ireland, so the language might be a little much for some folks (though the f-word with an Irish accent doesn’t seem so much like a wordy dird, does it?), but the music was great and the story was sweet and sad all at the same time.  I almost wrote “sweet and sad at…once.” But if I had done that someone might have thrown up.