What are you looking for?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?