Enter Wendell Berry.

My friend Ezra was into all things environmental, having recently completed an organic farming internship at Seven Springs Farm in Floyd, Virginia. When I first met Ezra, he was eating a ginormous, organic carrot in the break room at a gourmet grocery chain called the Fresh Market where we both worked.

Ezra introduced me to various environmental works: Daniel Quinn’s Ishmael, the cranky and often hilarious catalog of eco-anarchist Edward Abbey, and In the Absence of the Sacred by technology critic Jerry Mander. Knowing I was a Christian, Ezra introduced me to Wendell Berry—the great Kentuckian poet, novelist, essayist and farmer. This encounter with the works of an outsider Christian would change my understanding of what it means to be human, to grasp big ideas, and to love small things.

The first Wendell Berry essay I read was a photocopied version of “Christianity and the Survival of Creation.” This essay was delivered as a lecture at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s about ecology and art and the possibility of an imagination shaped by the outdoors, something that so many “indoors Christians” overlook.

This particular section offered a completely different way to approach sacred texts:

I don’t think it is enough appreciated how much an outdoor book the Bible is. It is ahypaethral book, such as Thoreau talked about--a book open to the sky. It is best read and understood outdoors, and the farther outdoors the better. Or that has been my experience of it. Passages that within walls seem improbable or incredible, outdoors seem merely natural. That is because outdoors we are confronted everywhere with wonders; we see that the miraculous is not extraordinary, but the common mode of existence. It is our daily bread. Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air, and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances, will hardly balk at the fuming of water into wine--which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is fumed into grapes. -Wendell Berry, Christianity and the Survival of Creation

As I have aged, this section has only become more true for me. We live in an age that philosopher Charles Taylor calls disenchanted. The world in which Berry lived and moved and had his being was a land filled with miracles. The title of another collection of essays said this much directly: Life is a Miracle. Some think we need to believe harder and come up with grand apologetic schemes to convince the faithful of the possibility of the miraculous. All of this convincing remains at the mind level, often within the conditioned air of modern buildings and underneath fluorescent light. Berry’s convincing was always based in the reality of the natural word. When some preachers were trying to get people to believe harder, Berry offered a way to believe better:

GO OUTSIDE!

As documented well in his seminal work The Unsettling of America and expanded upon throughout his vast corpus of essays, Americans have long been on a race to get off the land. Agricultural policy encouraged more acreage of farmland but wanted more farmers off the land. This continued distance from the very land we live on has changed us in ways we fail to see. We follow the events of the day, the stories of war, the fads of pop culture, and the waxing and waning of the stock market but forget how we are actually living. Two separate people can live the same material lives and hold wildly different beliefs. What they actually believe matters far less than how they actually live.

To go outside is to enter a new world entirely.

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Christianity and Survival of Creation concludes with a judgement that extends to much of religion today:

Much is made in churches of the “good news” of the gospels. Less is said of the gospel’s bad news, which is that Jesus would have been horrified by just about every “Christian” government the world has ever seen. He would be horrified by our government and its works, and it would be horrified by him. Surely no sane and thoughtful person can imagine any government of our time sitting comfortably at the feet of Jesus, who is telling them to “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you. . . “ (Matt. 5:44). -Wendell Berry, Christianity and the Survival of Creation

This judgment is conventient to ignore, this in a time when parts of Christianity align with the State in malignant ways. Berry’s simple, straightforward reading of the gospels—as well as the protagonist of his novel Jayber Crow—is rather “literal.” This is not literalist in the way of a fundamentalist, but literalist in the way that the text can and should be taken at face value first. An irony among most modern literalists is how few Christians submit themselves to literal readings of the gospels, the very words and teachings of Jesus. While ironic, it is unsurprising, given the church well knows what happens when someone questions the State with their very life. Powers that be, whenever they be, wherever they be, quash the simple and scorn the meek.

But the meek will inherit the earth.

—

It would be years later when I read my first Wendell Berry poem, many of which shape my way of thinking and living in the world. The Mad Farmer Liberation Front, The Peace of Wild Things, Wild Geese, Amish Economy, along with the Sabbath poems and the Timbered Choir are some of my favorites.

My friend Molly once gave me a small artsy print from Amish Economy, a phrase that is still changing my life:

I Dream of a Quiet Man is the poem I seek to live by:

I dream of a quiet man
who explains nothing and defends
nothing, but only knows
where the rarest wildflowers
are blooming, and goes,
and finds that he is smiling
not by his own will.

—

Wendell Berry was a wisdom writer—in the tradition of the psalmists or prophets or poets of old, but also in the tradition of American wisdom writers. Sometimes his views seem progressive, sometimes conservative. An individualist and iconoclast to the core—Berry knew the need for community, for place, for a home in the world. Watching publications try to label Wendell Berry often revealed more about the reviewer’s biases than accurately placing Berry in a specific “camp.” Conservatives pointed to his values of family, community, and faith. Progressives pointed to his critiques of militarism and hyper-capitalism and his embrace of environmentalism. Artists pointed to his way with words, a simple reverence that makes his art timeless—Wendell wasn’t one to waste words. Young farmers find a sage who can guide them to a new way of loving the land and living in harmony with the landscape.

To reduce Wendell Berry to this camp or that camp is to miss out on his project entirely. His work will continue to speak because of its wisdom and its rootedness to place. In an information age starved for wisdom, Berry offers guidance. In an age when so many feel rootless, Berry offers a home. Not simply a home in his words, but words to help you find an actual home in the world.

—

I ran into a guy this summer on the Outer Banks while ordering coffee — an urbanite from somewhere north of North Carolina, some 10 years my junior. Yes, my beach read was Jayber Crow. And yes, he was talking about reading The Great Unsettling of America.

We’re a type.

Wendell Berry fanboys unite!

While many of my musician friends are into Wendell Berry, many of my pastor friends are INTO Wendell Berry. Pastoral work at its best is wisdom work. His work has been a reservoir of wisdom that could be revisited in seasons of drought for many a pastor.

I started to notice an unfortunate trend a decade or so ago, however, when many well-intentioned pastors found a kindred soul in Wendell Berry. Popular figures like Eugene Peterson—a devoted fan of Berry’s works—would talk about substituting Berry’s language for parish ministry.

When he says “farm,” I’ll interpret it as “church.”

When he says “community,” I’ll interpret it as “congregation.”

While the parallels between the two readily present themselves, this over-interpretation misses out on the fact that when Berry talks about farms, he is not talking about farms in general. He is talking about the farm that he knows. When he talks about the community, he is talking his specific place in the world—the people, the plants, the animals, the land. Rather than interpreting Berry for our own contexts and purposes, I believe Berry’s work is an invitation to explore our own specific contexts more deeply and lovingly. This is why Berry is so keen on the word “place.” When he says farm, he means farm. When he says place, he means the place you actually live. Berry at heart is a literalist—a literalist in the sense that words should be taken first at face value. It’s not that we all have to become farmers, but that we all must find better and more loving ways of relating to our own little corners of the world.

This involves actual land; this is not simply a metaphor for church.

Every single one of us lives in a watershed. A specific one. I live in the Salem Creek watershed in Winston-Salem. As I walk by that creek daily I see the wreckage of our economy. The trash, the waste of life lived too fast. Styrofoam cups, tires, fast-food bags, and tennis shoes. As I walk by that creek I know deep in bones this place needs healing—it reveals that both my community and myself are not living in tune with our place.

As I walk by that creek daily I also see the peace of wild things. I witness the survival of creation. The great blue and green herons, the fish, the frogs and toads, the box elders and sycamores, the bountiful fungi, the ferns and wildflowers. As I walk by this creek I know deep in my bones—that healing is around us—inviting us to live in harmony with this place.

There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.

God bless, Wendell Berry of Port Royal, Kentucky. Rest well in the Kentucky dust from which you came, among the peace of wild things.

You do one single thing for fifteen minutes straight. After observing the first count, you walk to another spot and begin the process again.

I was able to do this three times. In addition to learning more about identifying insects, slowing down and learning to focus on one single thing was wild.

Like most people these days, I’m doing too many things at the same time.

Start a task. Send a text. Check my socials to see if people liked my silly semi-viral video. Answer a call. Check my calendar. Search why my vacuum cleaner is losing suction power (you need to clean the filter, bro). Recheck the calendar. Search a few more things. Respond with a 👍 to a text. After all this, I forget what task I started in the first place.

—

When I begin walking through a grassy meadow almost as tall as myself, the hurry subsides. I start to notice differently, feel differently. Birdsong shoots across the sky. The dew-soaked grass dampens my boots and jeans as I make my own path. I stumble across some already pressed-down grass, probably from some deer sleeping there last night.

To my left I notice an eastern tiger swallowtail butterfly fluttering around these beautiful, tall golden flowers. I think Van Gogh could have painted this scene. Grass and gold swirling in a world come alive.

What do I do now?

I guess set a timer and stare at these golden flowers for 15 minutes?

At first time seems slow. I’m wondering how well I can do with focusing. Then it starts to click. I’m swarmed by these little flies called Maize Calligraphers. They buzz around me, but don’t sting. They are way more interested in my water bottle resting sideways on the ground.

It was easy to see the butterfly, but now there aren’t as many pollinators. Then, around 10 minutes in, my eyes really start opening. Tiny little insects, everywhere on the plant. The “hurried mind” cannot see these insects; it moves too fast. The “rooted mind”—my feet are rooting me to the ground in one single spot—sees in abundance; moved, not moving, and everything belongs.

The 15-minute timer on my phone plays a soft song, but I react as if it was a jump scare in a horror film, terrified by the sudden interruption of quiet focus.

Census 1: 1 butterfly, 1 goldenrod soldier beetle, lots of little flies and other insects

I follow the slight grade of the landscape downward towards the creek that cuts through the property. Each side of the creek is dotted with small trees. I see and then hear a Carolina Wren perched on branch singing its heart away. If I were a bird, that would be me.

I find my second census spot among some goldenrods. This spot appears to have far less pollinator activity. I start my timer, put my phone in my back pocket, and stare at the tiny clusters of goldenrod flowers. Like the previous census, it starts slowly. I’m not noticing anything. I feel like I’m fishing and nothing’s biting. I arrived this morning with hopes of seeing honey bees, butterflies, and moths, but now I’m straining to see whatever I can.

Again at the 10-or-so-minute mark I start noticing things that were already there. The “hurried mind” transforms into the “rooted mind.” I see a bright red ladybug (was it there all along too?) and start seeing tiny little insects crawling from flower to flower.

Census 2: 1 ladybug, lots of little other insects

Wanting to find a good spot to see additional pollinators (and not wanting to go back to the group without some bee sightings), I decide to take a little longer to scout out my third census spot. I move back towards the farmhouse where the meadow transitions to an overgrown yard by a big red barn. I walk beside American Pokeweed, wild carrot, and brambles, only getting caught in briars once. Already nursing some serious poison ivy rash, I don’t need to get too cut up by briars.

I decide to walk to the road and then cross the bridge to get to the other side of the creek. Maybe more pollinators are over there?

As I pass the house on the way to the road, I see one volunteer sitting on the porch eating peanut butter crackers. She says she came back early after coming across a garter snake at her pollinator census spot.

The other side of the creek looks so different than the hilly meadow side. It’s wetter and lower. The plants here are different too. I check out a couple of spots and then settle on this tall plant with yellow flowers. It’s called a wingstem. Aptly named, the stem of the plant has winged ridges on each side, from bottom to top. At the top is the crowning glory.

I take a few pics and set my 15-minute timer. The gold flowers atop the wingstem are full of activity. I finally see a bee! First a bumblebee and then I see a wonderful new bee (at least to this newbie)—the longhorn bee. I first checked it off as a bumblebee on my census (“hurried mind”), but as I started to notice more and more (“rooted mind”), this bee looked different. First, the eyes were a bright yellow-green. Second, its antennae were HUGE. Behold the longhorn bee!

Census 3: 1 bumblebee, 1 longhorn bee, multiple ants, flies, and other little insects

That very longhorn bee stayed on that very same flower, back legs covered in golden pollen—for over 15 minutes: doing one single thing for 15 minutes.

—

I’ve come to think of spirituality as what we attend to and what we pay attention to. In this way, I guess we are all “spiritual”—whether we occupy that space from a “hurried mind” or a “rooted one.” The “hurried mind” sees many things, but sees nothing that well; the “rooted mind” sees one or two things, but knows them well.

I’m hurried way more than I’d like to admit: too many apps running in the background that suck my battery dry.

Still, I’m rooted when I play music, when I write, when I’m in the woods, when talking with others, and when doing a pollinator census. When doing these things it’s easier for me to be in my “rooted mind.”

A practice:

What one single thing could you do for 15 minutes straight this week?

A challenge:

Go and do more of that.

Let me know how it goes; I’m rooting for you. -Kyle

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Saved in Weird Way

I was speeding down the backroads of North Carolina in my 2001 Subaru Forester—with a kayak strapped above—heading towards the Roanoke River to catch up with friends and family. It was summer. North Carolina summer. The ones where the air is so thick you can feel it.

The group I was trying to catch up with included my wife, her friends Akiko and Tessa as well as my father-in-law and his brother—Uncle Joe. They had gotten an early start on the river. I was late, but intentionally so—because as a youth pastor—I had a Sunday event.

The plan was simple: pack my camping gear and kayak before church, host the youth lunch event, and then drive 3 or so hours east to the Roanoke River and paddle to camp on the pods with my friends and family. If I drove fast and then paddled fast I could make to the camping platforms on the river by sundown.

I made great time on the way as highway turned to byway to backroad to gravel parking lot at the river boat launch. I locked my car and stuffed my camping gear in the kayak. The cool water felt soothing on my hands and feet as I loaded into the Roanoke River to paddle a couple miles to the campsite.

The water moves faster in the middle of the river, so I set out paddling furiously to catch up with the group. The only sounds to be heard on this quiet river were the occasional fish or snake splashing in the water and a very occasional airplane flying overhead.

Quiet. Focus. Paddle.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

And then the winds came. And then more winds came. The leaves on the trees on the riverbank were swaying up and down—the way my grandpa said they do when a storm is about to come. I look ahead and the sky is getting black. Streaks of lightning in the distance. And I’m heading right toward it. Or maybe it’s heading right toward me.

Unfortunately, I was now in the widest part of the river. Before I could even think to paddle to the riverbank, the storm was here. There was no where to go. The lightning is striking all around and the rains start. First the drips. Then the drops. Then the sheets of rain. It was raining so hard I couldn’t see where to go—so dark—except when the lighting would strike like a strobe light on the river.

This was no dance party though.

Maybe a dance with death.

The sheets of rain turned to pellets of hail raining down on my head. The pellets turned to moth balls, the moth balls turned to golf balls. I crouched down toward the hull of my kayak—in a strange and awkward new prayer position, my hands covering my head to protect it from the hail. “Don’t lose your paddle,” I thought. “Don’t lose your paddle.”

But my thoughts quickly turned to prayers—not the academic kind they teach you in divinity school, not the poetic kinds prayed in cathedrals—this was a wild prayer to a wild God in a wild world. Gutteral. Ancient. Simple. It was a cry for salvation. “God Save Me!” “God Save Me!” I kept crying at the top of my lungs. My cries were no match for the thunder or the hailing dropping like bombs in the river. All my theologies and philosophies and hopes and dreams were worthless now. Nothing mattered except for the storm to calm. “God save me!”

Suddenly a stillness settled in.

One of the quietest moments I’ve ever experienced.

The rains stopped. The river was now like glass. I took a deep breath. I paddled on.

Ahead I saw the fork in the river, the one I had planned to turn to—the one that would lead me to camp. As I turned the corner I heard the familiar cries of my name “Kyle!” “Kyle!” “Kyle!” echoing across the water.

Even as the sun was setting and the night was settling in, I was almost home. I recognized these voices. They were the voices of my wife and father-in-law. They had seen the storm from a distance and paddled upstream to find me, now wet as a dog.

Wet as a dog and “saved” in a rather weird way.

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August Shows

August 7 - 1889 Taproom in Walnut Cove, NC (7-10p)

August 8 - Red Barn Bash at Grassy Creek Vinyards in Elkin, NC (Live music begins at 1p and KC&Timberline Trio plays from 3-4:30p)

August 20 - Summer Songwriters at Grace UMC in Greensboro, NC (7-9p)

August 21 - Daily Basket in Germanton, NC (6-8p)

We are forgetting how to behold and how to be held.

Let’s change that.

It was the first Sunday of the month in Paris and admission to all museums was free. One day a month set aside for the people. This mini-jubilee at the beginning of each month is a beautiful way to share art as a public good.

As youngish Yanks visiting Paris for the first time, this meant more money saved for my wife and I to taste our way through the city—moules frites, mulled wine, coffee, croissants, macarons, and simple baguette sandwiches of butter, cheese, and meat along the Champs-Elysees.

Our goal was to see as many museums as possible—a strategy I call “museum ad nauseum”—starting at the Louvre and ending atop the Arc de Triomphe.

Millions of eyes have seen me

Any visit to the Louvre really means a visit to see the prized Mona Lisa.

Once you pass through security and enter the museum you begin to see these little signs pointing you toward her. We wound through the antiquities, viewing hand carved stone architecture from Egypt that was thousands of years old. Eventually we decided it was our time to make a move for the Mona Lisa, so we followed those little signs through room after room.

When we finally found the inner sanctum that houses the Mona Lisa, my eyes were amazed. I couldn’t see her anywhere. Throngs of people holding cellphones and digital cameras surrounded this small artwork to capture a picture.

We pushed through the crowd, anxious to see her with our own eyes.

It was a strange experience, unforgettable yet so quick. Mona Lisa and I locked eyes and then I turned around seeking some breathing room away from the mass of humanity swarming this small, old portrait.

This wasn’t the art experience I imagined. The one where I get to stand 3 feet or so away from the painting and noticing every little detail, classical music playing over head, and the camera zooming in as the lighting accented every detail of me beholding this beloved little painting.

Instead, I caught a brief glimpse of Mona Lisa.

I’m not even sure I took a picture—or if I even wanted to.

Disappointed? Perhaps.

Really more confused than anything. Why this painting?

Why does it cast such a wide spell?

—

I don’t necessarily blame all the tourists clamoring to get their selfie with Mona Lisa. They want to be part of the mystique. We all want our little piece of it. It’s why we get autographs or love it when a favorite artist “likes” our comment on their post.

But Mona Lisa takes it to a level few stars ever have.

Is it her half-smiling smirk that lures us in?

That strangeness that Nat King Cole sang in “Mona Lisa” written by Jay Livingston, Ray Evans, and Cyro Mendes De Aguiar:

Mona Lisa, Mona Lisa, men have named you
You're so like the lady with the mystic smile
Is it only 'cause you're lonely they have blamed you?
For that Mona Lisa strangeness in your smile?

Her smile casts a strange 500-year shadow, growing larger by the year.

Painted by Leonardo da Vinci in the early 1500s, this portrait of Lisa del Giocondo has become one of the most iconic paintings in human history and most certainly in our modern era. In the 1600s the painting was moved to Versailles by none other than the “Sun King” himself, Louis XIV.

It would remain in the Palace until the French Revolution where it was moved to its current/permanent home in the Louvre. Do a deep dive and you’ll see how the painting was hidden to avoid thefts by the Nazis, how it now sits behind bulletproof glass, and how Pablo Picasso was once questioned for being part of a plot to steal it (though he wasn’t actually part of the plot).

Millions of eyes have seen Mona Lisa.

But have they really seen her?

I only share my secrets with you

Before the mystique.

Before the attempted robberies.

Before the selfies.

Before the songs.

Before the theories.

Before the Sun King.

Before the Louvre.

More than 250 years before the Declaration of Independence.

Before the American and French revolutions.

An artist’s paintbrush touched the canvas.

The word became flesh.

To be in that room. In that place. That, to me, is the real mystique. Not as observer, but as participant, magician, lover, and artist enraptured by knowing you are onto something regardless of how it may be perceived. It has a hold of you and you cannot let it go.

Successful as Leonard da Vinci may have been in his lifetime—who could envision at the time that their work will be obsessed over for centuries to come? Great art is made with great love—and that kind of love is the magic ingredient that separates talent from genius. That love lasts and shimmers through the centuries.

—

A secret:

I wrote “Mona Lisa” as a love song between artist and artwork—but from the perspective of the artwork.

Do we make art?

Does art make us?

Why are you still smiling?

“Mona Lisa” demo

Mona Lisa
Millions of eyes have seen me
No one ever sees me like you do
Millions travel miles to see me
No one ever sticks around like you

Watching the world through a camera
Flashes only fanning the flame
Millions call me Mona Lisa
Only you can call me by my name

Millions ask why she's smiling
Smiling faces laugh until they're blue
Millions ask what she's hiding
I only share my secrets with you

Watching the world through a camera
Flashes only fanning the flame
Millions call me Mona Lisa
Only you can call me by my name

You can see what no one sees… 
Yea, you can see what no one sees in me

Millions ask what's the attraction
But if you're asking that you may need a closer view
Cause millions of eyes have seen me
But no one ever sees me like you do

Watching the world through a camera
Flashes only fanning the flame
Millions call me Mona Lisa
Only you can call me by my name

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Diner Diaries with Justin Cox

A couple months ago I sat down in Cafe Arthur’s in Winton-Salem with writer Justin Cox for a wide-ranging interview. We talked about living at the edge of Appalachia and how the area has changed, the beauty of diners, the intersections and faith and songwriting, and why churches need to support art.

You can read the full interview at Good Faith Media.

I don’t know why I feel I need to disclose this, but I did not have the liver mush.

I also did not have the corned beef and hash.

I did have some country sausage patties (Neese’s is sadly still on hiatus), homestyle potatoes (with ample catsup), and 2 eggs over well (the BEST way).

We both had more than our share of coffee.

More Songs About Diners Please

Americana music, like the country it’s named after, is all about freedom. It’s a gumbo of musical traditions reaching back in history but also pushing forward in ways that make it such an elastic desciptor. Country, blues, old-time, bluegrass, newgrass, rock, folk, indie, gospel, alternative country, cowpunk, and more all get thrown in the pot—and you end up with artists that sound like traditional country (what you won’t hear on modern country radio) to artists that sound like indie rock bands with just a hint of twang.

Some of the best lyricists of the genre avoid the well-worn cliches that make so much of modern country cringe (how many ways can we sing about alcohol and trucks?). In avoiding the cliches, you’ll find a wide open country waiting to be explored. Overlooked characters and perspectives start to come to light.

In some corner diner you might just find something or someone that surprises you.

The best Americana songwriting keeps adding zesty musical and lyrical ingredients to the gumbo.

One place I’ve been exploring in songs lately are diners. Like my interview with Justin points out, diners feel like home. They are full of stories of people carrying joy and pain and heartbreak—stopping for a moment of connection.

Diners are sacred ground.

The coffee keeps coming.

And so do the songs.

Below are a couple newer songs I’ve been working on that involve diners—one as the site of a missed meet up and the other explores well… diner as sacred space.

Give them a listen.

I’d love to hear what you think…

Refill #1: “More to Find” demo (3rd verse & chorus)

I could board a plane in Heathrow
And fly back to the States
To meet you in a diner
Only find an empty plate
Oh, I'd say I almost found you
But I'm always running late
The last flowers of summer
Bloom in their own way

You're a freight train running
I'm a slow train coming
I still believe that I can find something
Waiting there for me 
At the end of the line
Oh, you may get there before me
But there's always more to find

Refill #2: “Route 52” demo (w/o bridge)

Eggs over easy 
And a biscuit half ate
can't read her badge 
So I ask her her name
It can be so faceless 
Waiting all day
For a dollar on the table 
And some automatic thanks

Hand the menu back
The eye contact it's killing me
Is it killing you?

I met God in a diner off Route 52
The spirit on the coffee
And the way she moved
The jukebox was playing
Killing the Blues
Had the world by the tail
But it always gets loose
I met God in a diner off Route 52

She signs the ticket 
Smiley-face Kate
Refills my refill
Says have a nice day
It can be so faceless
Smiling all day
For a dollar on the table
And some automatic thanks

Hand the menu back
The eye contact it's killing me
Is it killing you?

I met God in a diner off Route 52
The spirit on the coffee
And the way she moved
The jukebox was playing
Killing the Blues
Had the world by the tail
But it always gets loose
I met God in a diner off Route 52
52… 

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You didn’t feel like a number there, you felt like part of a family.

I taught at two elementary schools as a Multilingual Learning Specialist and helped administer WIDA ACCESS testing for English Language Learners for elementary and middle schools across the county. The WIDA ACCESS test is comprehensive language test that evaluates listening, speaking, reading, and writing.

While on this team of English languge educators, I met Jonathan Lancho. We eventually started meeting at a local Chick-fil-A for a little breakfast and Bible study. Jonathan had the kind of passion that I often wish I had for things—his energy for his students and his job were really inspiring.

Education was his calling.

And all callings are journeys.

Jonathan immigrated to the United States from Spain. In America he labored to learn the English language, finding that it continued to open doors for him. He took small jobs originally and started in the school system as a bus driver. After taking the necessary course work, he earned his teaching license and started working with kids who mostly spoke Spanish at home. The kids could relate to a teacher who knew firsthand how difficult learning English can be.

When listening to the radio in my car yesterday—something I don’t often do—I happened to hear a familiar voice. Lancho was on the radio!

From Spain to America.

From school bus driver to school teacher.

From English language learner to English language teacher.

And now the 2026 Piedmont Teacher of the Year.

Way to go, Lancho!

You embody the best of this country.

Listen to his interview here:

https://www.wfdd.org/education/2026-04-16/meet-the-piedmont-triads-2026-teacher-of-the-year

Yes, there are spoilers in this analysis, so please go stream this on Netflix and then return to this piece in case I share too much. If you happen to emerge from watching this film without crying or feeling more grateful for the gift of life in this beautiful and broken world, watch or read no further.

“Even though the old world is gone… you can still feel the echo of it.”

From the opening frames of Train Dreams, you know this is going to be a different kind of film. Shot in a different aspect ratio than most modern films, each frame looks like a vintage photo or a classic work of art. In a world so populated with 1:1 social post images, and widescreen 16:9 films, or 9:16 vertical reels, the 3:2 aspect ratio that Train Dreams employs is an invitation to a different world. The opening view of a massive spruce tree being felled and falling to the Idahoan earth lets you know that the West is changing.

Old growth forest are being cleared.

Making the way for railroads…

Making the way for interstates…

Making the way for air travel and the space race too…

The idyllic beauty of an old, weird America is changing to a modern one driven by commerce and the need to always move and expand.

Robert Granier, played by Joel Edgerton, emerges into this changing world. Orphaned at the age of 6 or 7 (he doesn’t even know his birth date), young Robert takes a train west to begin a new life in Idaho in the late 19th century. This sense of early loss pervades his thoughts and self-identity. He looks for meaning and searches for direction. A deeply thoughtful and quietly philosophical character, he drops out of high school and takes on odd jobs to provide a living for himself.

He finds the meaning and purpose he has been so desparetely searching for when he happens to meet Gladys (excellently played by Felicity Jones who in a minimal amount of screentime commands the screen). They quickly fall in love and begin planning a simple life together: a house, a dog, a child. Where life had not made sense for Robert before, it now takes a new direction.

Only life is not so simple—his work often requires him being gone from the ones he loves. And the worlds of home and work could not be more different. Robert seems “at home” when at home; he seems distant and searching when distant from home.

Still Robert works hard to build a life for his family. He works as a day laborer, a lumberjack, a railroad worker, and a wagon driver. He builds two cabins by hand. Though tough and hard working, he is also sensitive and introspective. He’s kind. As the world around him seems to get tougher and tougher, he is seen by others as different.

Throughout this transformation of the West (and America at large), Robert encounters an increasing meanness in many of his coworkers. While many immigrants helped build the railroads, a rising anti-Asian sentiment swept the country leading to the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882. Robert’s work takes place in the context of this anti-Asian sentiment and he experiences the way meanness shows up in horrific fashion. In a traumatic scene that sticks with him throughout the film, Robert witnesses some other railroad workers grab a Chinese immigrant worker and throw him to his death off the train trestle. Robert tries to stop the men by repeating: “What’d he do?” He is no match for this mean group of men, but he can’t shake the guilt of his inability to stop this murder. He wonders if tragedies that befall him throughout his life are due to him not doing enough to prevent this horror.

“It’ll do something to your soul.”

One of the more interesting characters in the film is the old-timer logger and dynamite blasting expert, Arn Peeples (wonderfully embodied by William H. Macy). Arn has spent his life in the woods. He knows the trees of the American West. He says they are your friends if you don’t mess with them, but if you do they turn into devils. Logging is dangerous work and many (spoiler alert) inlcuding Arn fall victim to trees.

Arn, too, is a thoughtful and eccentric character. He says that cutting down 500 year old trees your whole life will do something to your soul. Other workers comment that money does something to their soul, and more trees equals more money. Arn doesn’t see it that simply—he knows that human nature is complicated and he struggles with whether logging has been a net good. The trees, he oberserves, are getting smaller and smaller.

We cut down all the big ones.

While the trees are getting smaller and the landscape is changing, some souls are getting smaller too. We see this after a logging accident where Robert witnesses 3 men being rolled over by logs. At their funeral, with simple crosses made of sticks above their freshly dug graves, Arn nails their boots to a tree as a token of remembrance. Some of the men say a few words and are then interupted by the site boss who says, “I wish I could lay you off a day, but it’s the company. The world don’t stop wanting spruce.”

This simple line says as much about their world then as it does our world today. When we cannot pause to grieve, we cannot heal. So many men in this film push grief away to the recesses of their minds, hoping to forget the hurt and loss they experience. For Robert, though, grief is a constant companion.

“It’s a good thing to be different.”

On his last job as a logger, Robert hopes to make enough money to start farming with Gladys and eventually save up to start a sawmill. He dreams of more time with Gladys and his young daughter Katie.

His last job encapsulates all that has changed with logging. The old hand saws are out and new industrial chainsaws are in. New steam-powered machines assist them in the work, but the shots of the forests look even more desolate. The lush forests of old growth trees have given way to younger, smaller trees. It now takes more and more trees to equal previous harvests. Robert senses a mood change in the camps too, thinking the men are more crass than previous log jobs. However, could it have really been more crass now than when he witnessed the murder years ago? Maybe the work camps were just as bad as they always had been—Robert now realizing he was different than most of the men he worked alongside.

On his return home by train, Robert sees plumes of smoke in the distance. Wildfires have hit their area of Idaho, including his family’s farm. Everything is gone. Everyone is gone. The dreams of a simple life with Gladys and Katie are but ashes.

The grief Robert endures from this loss is all consuming. He camps out in the ashes where their home stood for weeks on end. Finally, another shopkeeper in town, Igantius Jack comes bringing the gift of food. Ignatius Jack is a Native American shopkeeper and like Robert is “different.” He spends time with Robert and helps him grieve. Never saying too much, his physical presence is a gift—a healing gift of presence that one man offers another man. Around a campfire one night, Robert has a good laugh with Ignatius Jack. He later finds some dogs and begins to slowly rebuild his life and his cabin—but he can’t finish the bedroom. There’s still a hole in his heart.

Robert takes to driving a horse drawn wagon, something of an early 20th century Uber driver and starts meeting all kinds of characters from his community. One day he picks up Claire Thompson, a new employee of the US Forest Service, who has been put in these parts to monitor wild fires from a fire tower. While giving her a ride to the fire tower, she remarks to Robert that all the town says he is differnt. “Different? Aren’t we all different?” Robert says. No, we’re not all different, she says and he too knows this is true. “It’s a good thing to be different,” says Claire.

Robert Granier is the kind of character who would not even get a footnote in history books. He loved well. He worked hard. He tried to be kind. He had a few really good friends. He dreamed. He lost a lot. He grieved and grieved some more. He healed. He never turned his pain toward others. He lived a full life. And in a brief moment he felt connected to it all.

It’s a good thing to be different.

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“Lately, I’ve been having dreams…”

Lately, I've been having dreams
Crazy dreams I can't explain
A woman standing in a field of flowers
And a screaming locomotive train
Crazy dreams that go on for hours
And I can't begin to tell you how that feels

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No, good ma’am or sir, we need a microphone.

If I’ve learned anything about myself lately, I’ve learned I NEED A MICROPHONE. Speaking. Singing. Storytelling. Podcasting. Interviewing. Introducing. Welcoming. Announcing. Recording. Reminding.

I need a microphone.

Not only do I need a microphone, I love microphones. Plugging them in. Holding them. Singing into them and hearing my voice bounce off the walls. It always feels and sounds like magic.

Recording engineers love microphones in a different way: the intricacies of mic placement, the specificities of choosing a ribbon mic or a large or small diaphragm condenser or whether to use a dynamic mic. They are sound scientists—always looking for the right formula.

My favorite mic is the standard Shure SM58. It excels in capturing the human voice in a live setting. The thing is near bulletproof. Thrown around, toured hard, these mics can take a beating. When I purchased a new one last year, the guy at Guitar Center tried to sell me a warranty. “Warranty?” I said, “Who needs a warranty with these mics?”

I need a microphone.

I do not need a warranty, thank you.

This past weekend my good buds invited me to play in Alexandria, Virginia as the opener for the music video premiere concert for their new song “Crows in Camouflage.” I shared stories and songs in a VH1 Storytellers format. The audience was really involved too. They wrote questions for the artists about songs and the songwriting process. In between songs we could select a few Post-it notes from a glass jar and directly respond to their questions. This was such a small but generous way of involving the audience and making it a true communal event.

One mic, many voices.

The following day I drove back and moderated an author talk for Kris Norris’ new book, Liberating Jesus: Christian Ethics for Priveleged People. I ran sound for the event—three off-brand dynamic mics into a small PA. It sounded good enough, until midway through Kris’ reading at the podium I couldn’t keep wondering why I didn’t use a condenser microphone at the podium. The mic I chose wasn’t picking up parts of his speaking well enough when he turned toward the audience. Few there noticed this minor audiophilic failure, but welcome to Microphone World.

I need a different microphone, I thought to myself.

I enjoyed reading Kris’ book prior to the event, but the most profound takeaway from the event was the diversity of the guests in attendance. Folks from different denominations. Folks of different colors and ethnicities. Folks of various theological and political perspectives all in one room. Though the book is a tough sell for audiences who want to maintain the status quo, Kris has a way of pulling people in—even if they disagree.

It’s a gift our world needs more of.

We need more microphones for justice, mercy, peace, and understanding.

Speaking of microphones…

I’ll be doing a couple shows in March with my pal Kai Crowe-Getty and his band. I’d love to see you there. If you know somebody in Winston-Salem or Boone—let them know we’d love to share some good tunes and good times.

March 12 - Gas Hill (Ramkat) - Winston-Salem, NC

Doors at 7pm. Music at 8pm. Venues love it when you purchase tickets in advance (so do bands!).

March 13 - Boone Saloon - Boone, NC

Music at 9:30pm. Event details here.

I.

I don’t know how your social media feed or algorithm looks like, but ever since 2016 mine is often filled with folks calling out evangelical Trump voters for their blatant hypocrisy. This is sometimes shared by friends who are not religious. But most often it’s shared by moderates, progressives, and even a few conservatives who just don’t understand how a politician and political platform so vile can win the votes of so many faithful followers of Jesus.

The basic formula for pointing out hypocrisy goes like this:

(1) State the purported evangelical value and (2) state the way MAGA/Trump falls way short of that value.

A common 2016 example:

I thought you were the folks that supported family values and character. How can you support a serial divorcé with a penchant for porn stars, adultery, and worse?

I kept seeing post after post calling out hypocrisy after hypocrisy. I was heartened when I even saw some prominent evangelicals like Russell Moore leave their denominations. I was encouraged when I saw Christianity Today—once the flagship evangelical magazine—denounced as “woke” for calling out the many lies of Trump.

Despite these high-profile evangelicals jumping ship, a strange thing happened. Among the most religious folks of all stripes—those who attend church most frequently—support for Trump went up in 2020 and up again in 2024. This was especially notable among white evangelicals, but also for all denominations and even among non-white groups. As Ryan Burge, the Baptist pastor and sociologist behind Graphs About Religion demonstrates:

Pointing out hypocrisy—at least according to this graph—did not work. It backfired. No matter how much one pointed out that DJT sounds nothing like JC, more church attendance equaled more votes for DJT.

—

Burge’s research also shows how evangelicals, who used to be more politically diverse (remember Jimmy Carter was a “born again” Christian?), have gotten more and more Republican since the 1990s. The clear winner in this religous and political marriage has been the Republican party, not the church. How has it not been good for the church? For one, folks with different political beliefs find themselves in an imposible minority position and often walk out the door—never to return. And as “red churches” get redder, many get smaller.

Some that leave find homes in more moderate or progressive churches.

The majority of the displaced, however, end up nowhere—at least nowhere in a church.

Interestingly, these post-church people are often the ones I see posting these hypocrisy posts. Something about Jesus still animates them. They still find his words and example inspiring. In a world based on power and wealth and privelege, Jesus stands squarely with the outcast and the underdog. That message still resonates.

The irony of this whole situation is that the folks who left post more often about Jesus’ life and teachings than those who stayed.

Why is this so?

II.

Christianity is a diverse religion containing billions of believers who agree on many things but disagree on many more. In the American context where many Christians are Protestant—a focus has been on interpretation of the Bible. This creates a key problem: how do we interpret a book comprised of different genres and set in different time periods and written by different authors and different languages?

With this much diversity within one book (well, really a library of well over 60 books!), it should not be a surprise that you can end up with wildly different interpreations. This is not to say all methods of interpretation are equal—some are better than others both theologically and ethically. Because how one interprets the Bible affects not only how one sees God, but also how one treats others.

There are plenty of bad actors today using the Bible in reckless and harmful ways. This has always been the case, but with the vast reach of social media, reckless scripture quotes spread like wildfire. One exhibit below is the case of a Texas pastor, Joel Webbon. In his post on X/Twitter he cites a Bible verse from Deuteronomy (and remember there are thousands of verses to choose from) to support ICE and their invasion of Minneapolis. He comes from the “anti-empathy” camp of Christianity, so his absence of pity is unsurprising.

He does not quote anything about loving neighbors.

He does not quote anything about welcoming the stranger.

He does not quote anything about showing mercy.

To which Rev. Angela Denker rightly points out:

Notice that they never, ever, quote Jesus.

They never quote Jesus.

Since he didn’t quote Jesus, he could have also turned a few pages over in the Hebrew scriptures and quoted this zinger:

“When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” Leviticus 19:33-34

That verse will not get you votes in 2020s America.

III.

I’m not big on creeds or belief statements, probably because I’m Baptist. But mostly because I have an anti-authoritarian streak. There are occasional lines in belief statements that delight me, however. There is a wonderful phrase found within the 1963 Baptist Faith and Message, that keeps coming to my mind: I call it the “Christ Criterion.” It closes out a section concerning a belief about the Scriptures:

The criterion by which the Bible is to be interpreted is Jesus Christ.

Plain English, simply and clearly stated: we interpret the whole of scripture through the life, teaching, and example of Jesus.

I lament that this line was nixed in the 2000 version of the Baptist Faith and Message. Am I naive to believe that much of the current Christian political crisis could have been avoided if that line had remained?

Probably.

History has a current and my favorite little line was swept away.

It was too inconvenient.

It is never convenient or easy or safe to interpret the Bible through Jesus. Take the story of the so-called Rich Young Ruler who comes up to Jesus and asks how to inherit eternal life. He says he’s been a good person. He’s followed the scriptures. Followed the law. And then what does Jesus ask him? Sell all your stuff and give it to the poor.

The man walks away sad.

He had all the scriptures—probably had a lot of them memorized—but now he had to deal with Jesus.

Jesus was his stumbling block.

I wonder how we are all like that—because we’d much rather deal with all the rules and laws that we can manage—than encounter the challenge of Jesus—not just his words but his life. For he gave up everything in a world that said you always need more. More status. More power. More wealth. He knew too well that there was a dark side to this desire for more and that those on the underside of society actually had God’s favor.

Blessed are the poor.

Blessed are the hungry.

Jesus says all this while the people who claim that America is a “Christian Nation” cut SNAP benefits for the poor and hungry.

They never quote Jesus.

IV.

I used to think calling out hypocrisy was more about feeling righteous or smart or justified. Now I’m starting to think that calling out hypocrisy is more of a lament. Calling out hypocrisy can be a form of prayer, because calling out hypocrisy comes from a deep grief in knowing there are better options available. It comes from knowing that there’s a whole greatest hits of Jesus quotes that go unsaid and unsung—because his quotes lead to a different world. And that isn’t convenient for those in power.

So keep calling out hypocrisy.

Even if it doesn’t work on them.

It works on you—inviting you to align with the life, words, and example of Jesus.

It works on you and reminds you:

A better world is possible.

This is also my first “Song of the Month” where I share a full take of a song of mine (with some occasional covers thrown in). I was told the other day that having 1 Substack subscriber is like 100 followers on TikTok. This is a platform where people can slow down a little, read an essay, listen to a song, and hear from different perspectives outside the mainstream. So thank you for reading and listening as I continue to build and grow here at Silent Strum on Substack.

Angel Army Band

When you see your neighbor 
Who do you see?
Do you see a friend 
Or an enemy?
One's easy to love and 
One it'll cost ya
If love is the way
There's no other option

Lay down your swords
Lay down your rifle
Pick up your fiddle
Open your Bible
The chorus is coming
Come weary, join in
Enlist in the Angel Army Band

When you see injustice
What do you say?
Do you lend a hand
Or turn the other way?
Oh they'll tell you what you saw
But you know what you see
How lies lock you up
How the truth sets you free

Lay down your swords
Lay down your rifle
Pick up your fiddle
Open your Bible
The chorus is coming
Come weary, join in
Enlist in the Angel Army Band

When your hands grow weary
From doing what's right
From making good trouble
From fighting the good fight
Oh I will hold you
If you will hold me
We'll dance in the streets
Singing jubilee

Lay down your swords
Lay down your rifle
Pick up your fiddle
Open your Bible
The chorus is coming
Come weary, join in
Enlist in the Angel Army Band

It’s a cold January morning at Tory’s Den on the north side of Hanging Rock. The air is quiet except for the wind gusting through the trees and the occasional bird song. I enter the woods with naked ears (no AirPods), my dog Abby my only companion.

Setting out on six mile hike in the low 30s with wind chills much below that gives your mind plenty to do. I snap some pictures of a freezing waterfall, spot a large mushroom growing at the top of a tree, and notice how the lichen covers the trees on the shady side of the mountain and gives the forest a vibrant grey sheen. Grey is not dull in the winter forest. It takes on expansive shades and hues.

I float back and forth between the songs I’m writing, the state of the world, how the forest seems so still and serene, a peaceful rock in the rushing river of our national moment.

I’m thinking of Minnesota. I’m thinking about a democracy dying fast and slow. I’m wondering why people keep asking “is this fascism yet?” or “is this authoritarianism yet?” — like they’re waiting on some new line to be crossed. These things happen step by step and you don’t realize how far a path leads until you reach a destination. Like the proverbial frog in the kettle, things heat so slowly we don’t realize it until it’s boiling. Even if it’s not boiling yet, the bubbles are starting to form at the bottom of the kettle. It could be moments before it reaches the boiling point.

Am I the frog in this story?

Or, am I the bystander in the kitchen who fails to turn the temperature down?

Either way, I’m cooked.

II.

Hannah Arendt wrote of “the banality of evil” when covering the Eichmann trials following World War II. Adolf Eichmann was one of the chief architects of the Holocaust, a real life monster if there ever was one. As she observed in the trial, however, Eichmann did not appear monstrous. Well-dressed and well-spoken, he came off as a government bureaucrat simply doing his job. He and many like him did their jobs and millions of people died. Arendt was lambasted by many for not making Eichmann and the Nazis out as some kind of monsters. Her insight revealed an even more monstrous condition—where normal people lose empathy and critical moral judgement. Everyday evil, banal evil is way more dangerous that outright terror.

The 2023 film The Zone of Interest aptly captures the dissonance of this phenomenon. On one side of the wall is a concentration camp; on the other side a garden. In one scene fur coats from murdered Jews are sorted through on the the commander’s kitchen table by the wives of the Nazi commanders. They sort through the luxury goods without thinking that the last women who wore these coats were gassed to death. Or, at least they could not let themselves entertain the horror of that thought.

On one side of the wall kids played in their backyard and went swimming and fishing with their dad; on the other side children starved and feared for their lives. Distant gunshots, the smoke from furnaces—the deaths are always in the background and are easy to overlook. Look away enough times and you will no longer see. The Zone of Interest is a drama film more horrific than most horror films.

Evil shows up in normality. It shows up in going along to get along. It shows up in what we refuse to see. Evil shows up in what we abide.

III.

The forest knows none of this of course. It knows interconnection. The root system of different oaks and hickories and pines and fungi all interconnect in a way that is a witness to us more sentient beings. The forest interconnects to survive; we divide because we’re too scared of what interconnection may mean.

A familiar Bible verse pops in my mind. It’s one that used be seen at football games and is often seen on makeshift billboards by the roadside. “For God so loved the world…” it begins. This sounds nice enough, but the word translated as “world” is actually bigger than that. The Greek word is kosmos. “For God so loved the kosmos” all that is and was and all that is becoming. God loved (loves) it all.

Too often the church has limited this verse to the individual. We use it to convert individual souls. In limiting this verse only to individual’s relationship to God, we lose sight of the radical implications of God’s cosmic love. This love interconnects with everything—we’re stardust afterall—but too often our love has been too small.

I hike along the frozen ground, trip over a rock or root, manage to keep my balance and keep walking. Abby gets caught around a tree. Tethered to a leash, she and I aren’t on the same wavelength, but we are still connected. We untangle from around the small tree and I lead her down to a creek of crystal clear cold water. She laps its up knowing nothing of my thoughts of cosmic love or democratic decay, yet me and my dog share a cosmic love. Sure we’re different species, but we share a connection and go on countless journeys together. She’s happy enough for any trail and knows no borders. She just knows when she’s with good company.

There’s a couple trees that have fallen across the trail from the last ice storm or winter winds. Of all the places to fall and this tree has chosen to make us aware of its previous life, now home to beetles and other insects, slowly decomposing and waiting for the park ranger to clear the trail in the spring.

Paths are crossed.

Paths are blocked.

Paths are cleared.

My mind is filled with stories of border crossers. Abraham and Sarah, Moses and the Israelites, the Exiled, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the kids and adults who I taught ESL, my neighbors, immigrant friends at my church, but most of all, it keeps coming back to God—the border crosser in chief. The One who because of love came down as an immigrant into this world and then became an immigrant in this world.

And the world knew him not.

Yes, that’s John 1:10 and the word for world there is kosmos too. What if the cosmos reflected a cosmic kind of love?

IV.

Writers love the right word. Weirdly enough, the smallest word has bugged me for quite some time. I’ve been mulling over “a,” the indefinite article, since a workshop I attended last summer:

Are you a Christian?

vs.

Are you Christian?

The first proposes “Christian” as an identity badge; the second proposes a lifelong quest or question. There’s a lot being claimed by people who say they are “a Christian” yet much of their actions—politically and otherwise—are unequivocally not “Christian.”

It’s hard to institutionalize cosmic love; perhaps that’s why we cuddle up with those in power and get swept up in their lies. Empires love to use religion so long as it supports for their own ends. Once religion critiques power structures, though, religion becomes an enemy of the state. Empires are aware of this dynamic—and are quick to use “Christian” language when it fits their goals. On the surface it sounds familiar, and all the more attractive, but it is just cover for their lies and power schemes.This is one reason Christians get swept up in empire-speak, even when empire-speak is not “Christian.”

When ICE recruitment videos employ scripture, they are not doing so in a way that is “Christian.” When evangelical thought leaders decry the “sin of empathy,” they are not doing so in a way that is “Christian.” When a famous evangelical preacher preaches at the Pentagon (you can’t make this stuff up!)—about a God who hates—he is not doing so in a way that is “Christian.”

Try telling ICE about all the verses that talk about welcoming the stranger.

Try telling the government to have mercy.

Try telling the Pentagon that Jesus says to love your enemies.

See how well they like your “Christian” language then.

It’s easier say you are a Christian, than to follow the way of a Jesus who hung out with the least of these.

There are many days when I don’t want to call myself a Christian—there’s just too much explaining to do. The loudest voices have so little mercy, so little empathy. It’s a lonely space holding on to faith in a world and church gone mad. But somehow this image of a border-crossing God is the grace I need in this present moment on these trails…

Broken trails.

Happy trails.

These trails.

We don’t walk alone.

7 Goals, More or Less

1) More Live Music, Less Digital Music

This year I want to be intentional about seeing live music and listening to analog music. I hope to see more live music big and small. As a maker of music, I want to support makers of music. Rather than listening so much through earbuds, I want to experience holding records, dropping the needle, and letting sound waves echo through my house.

Feel the music.

2) More Outdoors, Less Indoors

Last year I was fortunate enough to be accepted to the Northwest Piedmont Master Naturalist program. One Saturday a month we visit natural sites in the Piedmont/Foothills area and learn to “read the landscape.” This process has really transformed basic walks outdoors. I’m now looking for different plant communities, noticing how sycamores love creeksides and how oaks love the ridges. Time outdoors is also good for the soul.

Foothills Forever, baby.

3) More Hangs with Friends, Less Excuses to Not Hang Out

It’s easy to think of friends and then not call them. It’s also easy to make excuses (we’re too busy) to not hang out. This year I want to make more reasons to hang with friends.

We’re all too busy to not hang out.

Friends make life better.

4) More Movies in Theaters, Less Streaming on My Couch

This Friday night my wife’s childhood dreams are being realized as we’ll be seeing the Labyrinth (1986) on the BIG SCREEN. To give you a sense of her passion for this weird, animatronic fantasy film by Jim Henson(!), it should be noted that she doesn’t know my SSN but does know every. single. word. of this soundtrack. I’m excited to see this with her and our daughter in a theater full of nerds. Good company. This goal is starting with a bang.

More big screen; less small screen.

5) More Intentional Shows, Less Background Music

I’ve played my fair share of “background” music shows—most of my music friends have too. Some have to. It’s where you’re playing music and wonder if the venue should just be playing a Spotify playlist. It’s where people talk all over you. It’s where your songs are heard, but not listened too. If you’re at some restaurant or bar and there is a musician playing: TIP THEM. It’s a small way of saying: I HEAR YOU and I’M LISTENING.

I’m excited to be booking more “intentional” shows this year. Places like listening rooms and house shows and festivals. These are where your people are.

Lyrics matter.

6) More Breathing, Less Worrying

Simple enough. Because there is so much to worry about.

Breathe in: you are breath.

7) More Writing, Less Worrying About What to Write About

This year I’ll be writing more on Substack. Too often I fall out of a writing rhythm because I fear what to write about (see goal 6 above). I worry that what I write isn’t interesting or doesn’t connect well enough. I spend time worrying that I don’t have time.

In the next few days I’ll be planning a writing routine and figuring out the format for this newsletter going forward. It’s a refocus that I’m excited about and I look forward to sharing more.

Words create worlds.

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Florence Bonfire out now

This week I released a new song “Florence Bonfire.” This song reimagines the historic 15th century Bonfire of the Vanities and sets it in the context of a youth group in the American South casting their rock & roll records into a flaming burn barrel in the early 2000s. Blending theological and historical insights with fun and witty storytelling and featuring Kyle’s backing band Timberline along with a call-and-response chorus with two female pastors and singers, Rev. Emily Hull McGee and Rev. Olena Withrow, “Florence Bonfire” tells a timely story of human freedom in the face of authoritarian religion.

This track was recorded at Flytrap Studios in Winston-Salem, NC by Doug Davis who also contributed organ and keys.

You can LISTEN, SAVE, and SHARE it on Spotify, Apple Music, Youtube, or your music platform of choice. If you’d like to download the song and see the lyrics please visit https://kylecaudle.bandcamp.com/track/florence-bonfire

Christmas Special - on Local TV

If you are in the NC Piedmont, you can tune in to WGHP Fox 8 to see Kyle Caudle & Timberline playing some Christmas tunes as part of their Holiday Special. We played an original called “Zero Chance of Snow”—a catchy tune about Christmas on the Florida coast—and a classic Christmas carol “Silent Night.”

If you are outside of the viewing area or want to stream online you can watch at https://myfox8.com/live/

The Holiday Special airs each Wednesday at the following times:

Wednesday, December 3 at 7:30pm

Wednesday, December 10 at 7:30pm

Wednesday, December 17 at 7:00pm

**Kyle Caudle & Timberline will be featured in each episode**

Last Show of 2025

This Saturday, December 6, my band will be playing at 1889 Taphouse in Walnut Cove, NC from 7-10pm. We’ll be doing a mix of originals, covers, and a couple holiday tunes too. ‘Tis the season.

We’ve had a great year of music and are already looking forward to 2026.

Grateful to all of you for following along.

Much love,

Kyle

In last week’s post I shared about my anniversary song for my wife. Enjoy a demo below. My goal was to write a short, sweet, and catchy song. I think this checks all the boxes.

Sweetest Kind
I need changes and I don't mind
I been waiting all my life
That ol' holy grail's so hard to find
Darling your love is the sweetest kind
Darling your love is the sweetest kind

Heaven knows I got a curious mind
Every tree I see I wanna climb
From the timberline I look far and wide
Darling your love is the sweetest kind
Darling your love is the sweetest kind

Ooh la la dee da
Darling your love is the sweetest kind

I need changes but not tonight
You and me under a cloudless sky
The satellites and stars align
Darling your love is the sweetest kind
Darling your love is the sweetest kind

Ooh la la dee da
Darling your love is the sweetest kind

Upcoming Shows

• Muddy Creek Listening Room in Winston-Salem, NC

  8/24 at 2pm

  Ticket link here

  This show will be sharing a bill with the wonderful Doug Davis & Radio Silence. I’ll be joined by multi-instrumentalist Nick Bullins and TJ Holt on upright bass.

• Daily Basket in Germanton, NC

  9/6 at 6pm

  Info link here

  This show will be a full band Kyle Caudle & Timberline outdoor show at the lovely Daily Basket.

• Gas Hill in Winston-Salem, NC

  9/18 at 7pm

  Ticket link here

  Finally getting to share a bill with my friend Evan Blackerby and his band, the Bandwagon. Kyle Caudle & Timberline will be full band in one of the best sounding rooms in the Triad.

I worked with it for a little while last week and realized how good of a song it is—from the lyrics to the chord movements—it’s a really solid song. Since I don’t currently play with a cheat sheet (aka iPad) I was unable to pull off a cover in less than a week. Too many chords and lyrics to memorize.

During my set Saturday night my daughter came up and asked me if I was going to dedicate a song to Charla for our anniversary. “Dedicate a song? I WROTE her a song.” It’s called “Sweetest Kind” and I dedicated it to her a couple songs later. It may be one of the catchiest songs I’ve written and I’ll share a demo of that song next week.

The thing about entwining your life with someone is that it often shows up in the weirdest ways. I was listening back to an early demo version of my song “Devices” and realized near the end of the song there is this brief buzzing sound on the guitar strings. It adds this human quality to the whole thing. That brief buzzing sound near the end is in fact my wedding ring making contact with the strings. It shows up briefly as if to remind me that even when you think you are doing something alone, the presence of those you love still shows up.

Sometimes audibly!

“Devices” demo (listen below)

This early demo of “Devices” would become a new start for me musically. If you listen closely when you get to about 4:09, you’ll hear the nice little buzz created by my wedding ring.

—

Since I was unable to play “Your Song,” I thought I’d get my wife the anniversary gift of a vinyl record that contains the song. Turns out she thought the same thing and we each gifted one another with the same Elton John record on August 10.

Here’s to 23 more!

In that first announcement post last June I said a few things I hoped to do here on Substack:

Focus on song, story, and soul.

I’ll be exploring songwriting as a spiritual practice.

I’ll share many of my own songs and my own process as one example.

I’ll interview songwriters and other creatives about their own unique processes.

I’ll write about prayer and the religious worlds of songs and songwriters I admire.

I’ll also begin activating payments for those who choose to contribute. Some have already pledged to support the work.

Anniversaries, birthdays, new years, etc. are good times to check in and see how we are doing.

So how’s it going? What have I been learning?

Focus on song, story, and soul.

This has been my main mission and most of my posts have landed solidly within the worlds of song, story, and soulfulness. Hopefully one or all of those categories connect with you.

Exploring songwriting as a spiritual practice

I’ve hinted around at this but still, but this is an area I hope to work on more. I used to have a picture of a guitar on my desktop with the text “this is my prayer” on it. It inspired me to think of playing guitar as a form of spiritual practice. I imagine countless activities could and should be considered spiritual—especially if approached prayerfully and reverently. It’s really about attention.

Sharing my own songs

I’ve shared plenty of FULL SONGS here. If you’ve watched or listened to more than 30 seconds of a song on a Substack post, you’ve done better than anyone on social media—and I’m looking at all of you who listen to a song for 1.5 seconds and give it a “like” (I wish I was not guilty of the same). Anyway… my band Timberline will finally be debuting the song “Parts Counter” this weekend.

Interviewing songwriters

This year I interviewed my brother Caleb Caudle as well as the Pharaoh Sisters. Hoping to do more of this in year 2 of Silent Strum, but I was extremely pleased with how those turned out.

Writing about the religious world(s) of songwriters I admire

Apparently I STILL did not get around to this. However, I did get to see Gillian Welch and David Rawlings at the Ramkat in May. They played 3 or 4 encores and it transported me to another religious world entirely. Bonus: We did a trio at church of their song “By The Mark” that same week and I sang harmony, which I rarely do. It was a good way to show off a little vocal lessons I have been taking lately.

Which brings us to…..

Activating payments!

I have not activated payments yet, but that is happening soon.

If you’d like to join the others who have pledged, it’s currently set at $8/month which amounts to a dozen eggs and a cup of coffee these days. However if you’d like the prestige of being a “founding member” that will set you back $150.

I’m working on incentives for paid subscribers and will send that in a separate post soon.

Much love & gratitude

I started writing and sharing music again after a few years away and it has been a wild and wonderful ride. Over the course of 2-3 years I’ve released an EP, I’m currently finishing up 3 singles as well a a full length album, I’ve put together an awesome band, I’m still developing this newsletter, trying to “manage” social media, and booking my own shows, all while working full time, being married, and having a kid.

It’s been a lot of work and I’ve loved it.

Do what you love and you’ll work every day.

Thank you for reading and listening and sharing. It’s those little things that really make doing what you love even better.

Keep strumming,

Kyle

We are entering graduation season, that time of year where countless college grads will hear CEOs and best-selling authors and other successful people say things we all want to hear.

They say things you’ve probably heard countless times before:

Follow your dreams.

Reach for the stars.

Work hard.

Do what you love.

They will imply that if you do those things then happiness or success will follow. Those phrases worked for them. They achieved and stand before you as shiny emblems of the formula of success. It worked for them; it will work for you.

Universities do not invite losers to deliver commencement addresses. And I don’t necessarily blame them. That would be a bad look for any institution. What family wants to spend six or seven figures on a college education to hear that your child may not be happy or successful if they follow their dreams?

Yet the most interesting people I know are the ones who follow the formula and realize the formula isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. They work hard and fail. They have a big idea that doesn’t catch on. They make beautiful art that no one seems to notice. They pick the wrong major but never stop learning. They take the road less traveled and it makes them different. They are bruised and wounded but somehow keep showing up.

What if you followed dreams without the need for some kind of payoff?

Could dreaming itself be the reward?

What if you did what you love without the need for it to be understood?

Could love itself be enough?

What’s singing in me?

I’ve read Parker Palmer’s little book called Let Your Life Speak on multiple occasions. It makes a great graduation gift, but it’s most likely that the little book will collect dust for a few years until a weary graduate picks it up and finds life in it. Palmer talks openly about his major depressive episodes that came about even when he had achieved everything to outward observers. He had the degree. He had the position. Everything looked like he was on track to be giving commencement addresses about success, but he found himself clinically depressed.

Our schools talk often about preparing kids to be “college and career ready.” Schools achieve these goals pretty well. There’s a lot of degrees out there. Few, however, really educate kids for the work of vocation.

Vocation is one of those words that still has spiritual resonance as it is related to the voice or a calling within one’s self. It is a soul word. Vocation can include a job and a career—but it’s a deeper sense of one’s work in the world. Vocation is the song that’s always singing in you—despite the world’s attempts to have you sing a different tune.

I like to think of vocation as the kind of work that you do regardless of your job title. Perhaps it’s even about how you do the work you do. A job is something you do; a vocation is a way of life. Vocation is specific to each person. If you’ve been to different doctors (even if they have the same title) you will know that each approaches their vocation quite differently. One takes time to listen. One tries to rush on to the next patient. Both are doctors, but you experience each in a different way.

Deep down we hunger for a vocation, but we too often settle for jobs. As Gillian Welch sings, “I could get a straight job / I done it before / never minded working hard / it’s who I’m working for.”

To find vocation—that voice singing within us—requires some listening. Life has a way of getting us to pay attention to the song singing within us. We often numb the song or try to drown it out. Some end up in major depression like Parker Palmer. Others do all kinds of things to avoid it. But the song keeps singing. It is waiting to be heard.

“Before you tell your life what you intend to do with it, listen for what it intends to do with you.” Parker Palmer, Let Your Life Speak

At the end of the day, who are you working for?

The Algorithm Knows Your Pain Points

I began sharing videos of myself singing and playing guitar a couple years ago. At first this was a way of claiming who I am in the world and sharing something I love. I think the world needs to see more people doing what they love.

[Yes, that is exactly what some shiny CEO will say at the commencement speech down the road too.]

Words and music are an expression of my vocation. If I do not make music and write and sing, then I close off part of myself and end up depressed. I’ve been through the cycle enough times to know that I must make music and write and sing.

Songs are literally singing in me.

I am all for the “doing what you love” part of the formula, but the next part is where it gets real toxic real quick. The part that I’m noticing more these days is how the algorithm keeps showing me videos and ads of “this is how you get noticed” or “this is the microphone you need to improve your audio” or “this is the way to go viral.” It devolved so quickly from doing what I love to needing to be loved.

The algorithm knows your pain points.

You share a song you think will (and should!) get a lot of likes, loves, and comments. However, the song does not perform well enough so you keep coming back hoping for more likes.

Did I overthink it?

Do I need to improve my lighting? My audio?

Do I need to be funnier? Younger? Older? Sadder? Weirder?

Do I need to be more authentic? Do I need a persona?

Do I need to record in the woods or in a clearing beneath power lines like that Welles dude?

Am I even a good musician?

Am I even a good person?

Does anyone love me?

Do What You Love and You’ll Work EVERY DAY

There’s a thin line between vocation and desperation. Vocation comes from a place of love. This is the work: love. Love is hard work. To bring what you love forward without the need to be loved is hard work. When you start from a place of needing to be loved, you’ll chase every shiny thing you think will love you back. It may make others happy for a while, but you’ll end up as unhappy as ever. You’ll have lost what you loved all along. You’ll have sung somebody else’s song.

So Weary Graduates, on the cusp of the rest of your life:

Are you ready to get to work?

Algorithms cannot love you. People can. And there’s a lot of people who need and want to see other people do what they love. It gives them permission to listen to the song singing within them too.

You have heard it said, “Do what you love and you’ll never work a day.”

But I say to you, “Do what you love and you’ll work every day!!!”

And you will love it.

And others may love it too.

And maybe you’ll figure out the money part.

But hopefully you’ll remember that your voice is your gift. You didn’t ask for the song. It was a gift all along. Waiting to be sung. Your gift, your story to share.

Share

And a poem by William Stafford…

The Way It Is 
by William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

In the book Christine Valters Paintner quotes desert mothers and fathers—early followers of Jesus who really took “losing your life” to heart. They engaged in weird experiments to learn greater truths.

One such gem:

It was said of Abba Agathon that for three years he lived with a stone in his mouth, until he had learnt to keep silence.

(Agathon 15; Ward, “The Sayings of the Desert Fathers”)

I also happened to catch part of the cabinet meeting today. It was a complete farce, like so much is these days. There was something particularly bothersome, though, about hearing their meaningless words. Cabinet member after cabinet member began each of their “glorious” reports about how “awesome” everything is by heaping praise upon praise upon the president.

Seriously, who does this?

People who don’t put stones in their mouths, that’s who.

Holy Ghostbusters & Mountain Dew

Youth ministry is an odd job. Depending on your denomination or “philosophy” of youth ministry, it can be a really odd job. I grew up in a culture of youth ministry brought to you by Mountain Dew™. Mountain Dew Youth Ministry is characterized by heavy doses of caffeine, sugar, and yellow no. 5—plus a lot of Jesus stuff mixed in there too. It was all about turning the volume up to 11 and shocking kids with crazy stunts.

As a teen I once witnessed two youth pastors display a largemouth bass before the group in an opening activity. They then placed the bass in a blender, mixed in some water, and pureed the poor fish. Then a volunteer was chosen to take a sip from the Bass-O-Matic. Yuck, yes. Disgusting, for sure. And yes, animals were harmed in the making of this activity.

Thinking that blending a poor fish in a blender would somehow make kids interested in following a poor, itinerant rabbi seems pretty odd now. The thing about Mountain Dew Youth Ministry is that no one at the time thought this was odd. Activities like this were a weekly occurrence in Mountain Dew Youth Ministry.

A few years later I would find myself in youth ministry as a youth pastor, but of a much less-caffeinated variety. My charism is chill, so I knew shock & awe would never be my way. Plus, I’m more of a catch & release fisher. Not sure I was ever too strategic about my “philosophy,” but I’ve now learned that my way of doing this work has been about presence, not spectacle. Being present means being attentive to the environment and the people in it: what they are saying, what they are not saying, how they are responding, what they are doing, and how they are interacting with others.

Teenagers have a pretty well-developed BS-filter and can sense if you are not being real. If we are honest there are few places where people are really real. We put on church clothes. We filter our photos. We try so hard to fit in. But the Replacements were right: “The ones who love us least are the ones we'll die to please.”

Adults learn the art of not being real to move up in the world. And then what do adults do? They spend a child’s whole life asking them what they want to do when they grow up! Show me the person who wants to be real when they grow up and I’ll show you a real person. Real is not an odd job. Real is a way to live.

Even if you go through life avoiding being real, life will continue to confront you with the possibility of being real. And often this shows up in vulnerability. Injury. Failure. Sickness. Pain. Mental health crisis. These unavoidable potholes are mile markers on the road to real. One of the odd things about ministry is that some of your most “real” conversations with others happen at hospital bedsides or in homes following a family member’s death, or when someone is in crisis.

You can spend your days writing mindless emails to remind people about a committee meeting that no one really wants to attend, and then you get a call.

At least in those days, I got a call.

You probably know the Ghostbusters theme song. It’s so silly you almost miss the existential question that keeps repeating throughout the song—who you gonna call?

If there's something strange
In your neighborhood
Who you gonna call? 
(Ghostbusters!)
If it's something weird
And it don't look good
Who you gonna call? 
(Ghostbusters!)

When you don’t know who to call or where to go, who are you going to call? Who will believe you? Who will hear you? Who will answer you?

Who you gonna call?

Most folks—if they are fortunate—would call a family member or a friend or neighbor. Sadly, in this lonely country too many people do not know who to call when facing a major crisis. Things get weird. Things get strange.

Who you gonna call?

For many people in the Bible Belt churches are still the Ghostbusters.

When you have nowhere else to go, who’s gonna answer the call?

—

An understudy on any odd job always gets the most interesting assignments. When I started out at a grocery store, I loaded the frozen goods in the freezer for a couple hours each week—2 hours in a sub-zero freezer lifting heavy boxes to start the workweek. When I worked in the deli department of that same store, I had to clean the rotisserie oven nightly and dump gallons of chicken grease in a large vat behind the store. When I started youth ministry, I’d get random assignments to help me get “ministry experience.”

Now “ministry experience” is an odd kind of experience. It literally could mean nothing and everything. It could mean outfitting the youth room with music equipment or booking paintball trips (okay, I occasionally Do the Dew™). It could also mean taking an assignment to meet with a struggling teen who has no connection with the church.

My supervisor received a call from a distressed woman whose son or grandson was depressed and possibly considering self-harm. She was in need and said she had nowhere to turn. Who you gonna call? I imagine the woman picked up the Yellow Pages or googled “church” or “Baptist church” and our church—First Baptist Church—was the first one that came to mind. Maybe she had called other churches at random, but no one answered. What I do know is that we took the call and I got an interesting holy ghostbuster assignment.

“Would you be willing to meet with him?” my supervisor asked.

“Sure.”

—

Dylan was a tall, wiry guy in his late teens (only a few years younger than me at the time). He gave off the impression that he was one of those young men who didn’t quite do well in high school but who also didn’t quite do well in the job search either. He was what some may now call low socio-economic status or what we used to call poor. Either way, the Kingdom of God was for Dylan. He was a courageous kid too. He had walked into an unfamiliar church house to talk with an unfamiliar youth pastor for about an hour.

Reaching out for help is a courageous act.

I listened. I asked questions. He was quiet but shared openly of his struggles. He was angry. Depressed. Wanted things to get better. We prayed. He left.

Hopefully he left more hopeful.

I had no training in counseling, crisis management, or in suicide prevention. I was not trained in trauma-informed care. What I did have was time and space and presence. I now know that these are not substitutes for one another. He needed both the professional and the pastoral.

And I did not get his information to follow up.

And I never got his last name.

And I hope you are out there doing well.

And a couple years ago I found a yellow sticky note tucked away in a book that said: “MEET WITH DYLAN.”

Dylan, wherever you are, I’m cheering for you.

—

Here’s a demo of a song I wrote for Odd Jobs called “DYLAN”:

His mother called in the church house
Said you need to save my son
He's having dreams and visions
Of a self-inflicted gun

And, I know you know somebody 
Who can raise the dead to life
Who crawled into a catacomb
And came out the other side
Tunneling back to life...

Dylan was quiet as a church mouse
I asked him what was goin' on
He said I've lost all dreams and visions
All I see is a black hole sun

And, I know you know somebody
Who can raise the dead to life
Who crawled into a catacomb
And came out the other side
Tunneling back to life...

We said our amens and goodbyes
He said I best be movin' on
To find my dreams and visions
Something I can call my own
Tunneling back to life...

Share

More to come and thanks for reading. -Kyle

“And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.”

I.

Today’s text from Luke 9:28-43a is one filled with mystery. We can read the story of the transfiguration, but it cannot be fully explained. The events can be described, but even the descriptions contain so much mystery. The descriptions leave us with more questions than answers. Luke recounts that Jesus’ face changed appearance. Well, what exactly did that look like? His clothes became dazzling white. Are we talking Clorox bleached white or shining bright and radiant as the sun?

Then it is said they saw two men, notable characters from the biblical story—Moses and Elijah—talking with Jesus. Was this a vision? Was this a dream? Luke says the disciples were “weighed down” with sleep. In this sleepy haze, in that slightly confused, slightly sleepy state—maybe how some of you feel on Sunday morning—Jesus is talking with Moses and Elijah about his departure. The word Luke uses is exodus. Jesus is talking about his exodus. This raises yet another question: is Jesus about to deliver us like God delivered God’s people out of captivity in Egypt?

Peter, bless his heart, always the one ready to roll up his sleeves and do something proposes an idea: let’s put up 3 tents on the mountain. Let’s camp here for a couple nights. Let’s preserve some of the mystery—see where it leads. This is pretty amazing, let’s see if we can stay here a little longer. But Luke is quick to point out that Peter didn’t know what he was talking about. Now to Peter’s credit, no one else seems to have any plan or any bright ideas. James and John over there, you seem pretty quiet.

And just when this story couldn’t get any more mysterious, when the disciples could not be any more astounded, a cloud comes in and covers them. Their speech cannot explain what is happening. This mystical encounter on the mountain is ineffable—it is beyond words. Now when a cloud comes along and covers them it’s also invisible—it is beyond sight. And in the closing of their mouths and the shutting of their eyes, their ears are opened. A voice cries out from within the cloud: “This is my Son, my Chosen, Listen to him!”

Mystery after mystery, then comes clarity: listen to him.

II.

Divine encounters in scripture often take place on mountains. Moses experiences God and receives the 10 commandments on the mountain. The psalmist talks about lifting our eyes to the hills. In Matthew’s gospel at least, Jesus’ most famous sermon is the Sermon on the Mount.

In literature too, mountains occupy this space of mystery and otherness. Mountains are places where limits are tested and truths are revealed. Mountains offer perspective—for looking out at the world around you and also looking within. Perhaps that’s why so many of us love hiking or adorn our cars with stickers that say things like “I Love Mountains.” Even from my local peaks such as Hanging Rock or Pilot Mountain, you can look around at the piedmont region below and see this familiar area with new eyes, full of wonder.

A few years ago I was hiking with my wife, Charla, in the Appalachian mountains in western North Carolina. We set out for one of the grassy, bald areas at the summit, where we could see 360 degree views of the Appalachian mountains. But it was cloudy, misty day on the hike up the mountain with limited visibility. When we finally reached the summit we noticed that the Appalachian Trail cut through the grassy area. Just around that time, we noticed a bearded hiker who was thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. As our paths crossed, the clouds parted, the sun shone, and revealed a great rainbow stretching across the sky. We were all astounded by this glorious sight and this hiker was crying tears of joy.

Tears were running all down his face.

It is not surprising that people encounter God on the mountain. God met Moses on a mountain. God meets Jesus and a small group of his disciples on a mountain. This is probably because you don’t end up on top of a mountain by accident. You have to prepare. You have to plan. You have to hike. Doing something intentional can open us up to the unexpected encounter with God. That’s why often at places like youth camp—where kids and students are intentional about limiting distractions like cell phones and spending the week immersed in bible study, worship, and community—many experience what are often called “mountaintop experiences.” These encounters provide some new insight or new way of seeing and often provide a very close feeling of connection to God. When this happens you realize that something about Christian story changes you and hopefully stays with you when you eventually go back down the mountain.

III.

It would be lovely if life was all about these cinematic experiences—and yes tonight is Hollywood’s big day of celebrating cinematic experiences, The Oscars™. Life—however—doesn’t often feel cinematic—for much of life is lived down in the valley, in the ordinary.

You could call this the law of spiritual gravity: “what goes up must come down.”

You climb that mountain; you must climb back down. You go away for camp; you must go back home. You go on vacation; you have to go back to work. You worship in a sanctuary and then are sent back into the world. Navigating these transitions is is one of the most challenging parts of the life of faith. When God feels close, then we can resonate with Julian of Norwich who said: “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

When God feels distant, however, we can feel what St. John of the Cross calls the “dark night of the soul.” When Peter, James, and John came back down the mountain they kept silent and told no one of the things they had seen. But what they had seen had to affect how they were seeing. They saw God do great things on the mountain.

Could that really happen down in the valley?

“On the next day, when they had come down from the mountain…” Luke says a large crowd comes up to Jesus. And there is a crisis. A man begs Jesus to heal his son. His only son. The kid is experiencing seizures, he’s afflicted by a spirit, foaming at the mouth—and then the kid’s father tells Jesus “I begged your disciples to cast out this spirit, but they could not.” These disciples—including those 3 who went up the mountain—are the same disciples Luke has already told us about at the beginning of this same chapter.

[Jesus] gave them power and authority over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal the sick… [The disciples] went through the villages, bringing the good news and curing diseases everywhere.” [Luke 9:1-2, 6]

Now in this situation they fail.

When they fail, it’s no surprise that Jesus is exasperated with them calling them a “faithless and perverse generation.” Hard words. Hard words right from the mouth of Jesus. If only we were less like them today. The amount of healing needed—and we can’t heal. I hear person after person say—there is so much to do: so much healing needed, so many hurting people, this political crisis, the climate crisis, the economic crisis, the mental health crisis. It feels like the world is falling apart. I hear followers of Jesus today say I don’t know what to do. I say this myself: I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. It’s like we are caught in a cloud where we can’t see, and there is so much noise around us that leaves us speechless not knowing what to say. So much confusion around us and we do not know how to act.

I wonder what Jesus is saying today? What if we started by listening to him?

Mystery after mystery, then comes clarity: listen to him. For in listening to Jesus we may be astounded at what we hear. Astounded at what he calls us to do.

IV.

Thomas Merton, the renowned Trappist monk and writer describes his own mystical experience of connection with God and humanity. This experience did not happen in the confines of a cloistered monastery or on a mountaintop but in the bustling city center of Louisville, Kentucky. He writes: In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream.

I have the immense joy of being human, a member of a race in which God became incarnate. As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now I realize what we all are. And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun… Then it was as if I suddenly saw the secret beauty of their hearts, the depths of their hearts where neither sin nor desire nor self-knowledge can reach, the core of their reality, the person that each one is in God’s eyes. If only they could all see themselves as they really are. If only we could see each other that way all the time. There would be no more war, no more hatred, no more cruelty, no more greed…. I have no program for this seeing. It is only given. But the gate of heaven is everywhere.1

Being astounded by God is not something reserved for the select few but for anyone who is willing to pay attention. Anyone who is willing to listen. The gate of heaven could be on the mountain—whether that be at church, or a camp, or on a retreat, or in nature—but the fact is that life is lived in the valley. The everyday, the ordinary, the city, the farm, the suburbs and schools, workplaces and third places—the gate of heaven is there too.

For the gate of heaven is everywhere.

V.

We have an ongoing debate within our household about Luke. Not the gospel writer, but Luke Skywalker in the newer Star Wars film The Force Awakens—where Luke is in self-imposed exile in solitude on a lonely island populated mostly with Porgs—these cute little puffin-like creatures, praying away his days.

Interestingly, the filming location is on an island off the coast of Ireland that once housed an ancient Christian monastery. The debate in our household is whether Luke Skywalker should he have withdrawn to the island to live away his days as a mystical Jedi in solitude and serenity (my preferred option—the way of contemplation), or, whether he should help restore the balance in the force by encountering and overcoming the darkness directly (my wife’s preferred option—the way of action).

It’s a fun debate, but the truth about the way of Christ is that the option is not either/or. It’s not about contemplation versus action. It’s what Richard Rohr and others have called “non-dual” thinking or what David Hull calls “ampersand faith.”

Contemplation & action go together.

The choice is not between the mountain of contemplation OR the valley of action—but in developing the spiritual rhythm of LISTENING - to the cries of God and the words of Jesus—but also in listening to the cries of our neighbors—particularly the vulnerable. And then acting. And then listening. And then acting. And then listening. And then acting. And then listening.

For the gate of heaven is everywhere. On the mountain. In the valley. and everywhere in between. Listening is where healing begins. “And all were astounded at the greatness of God.” Amen.