by Andrew Peterson
Two years ago I walked the streets of Oxford with my wife. We were in London for a few days during the final throes of Spring and took the train to the famously literary town to visit, among other things, the former home of C.S. Lewis.
It’s a two-story brick house called the Kilns, in what used to be the outskirts of Oxford and is now buffeted by subdivisions. Fifty or sixty years ago Lewis sat upstairs at the Kilns and wrote, or he strolled around the pond behind the house smoking his pipe; now college students live in the house and the pond is littered with old tires and oil bottles.
Not far from his house is a picturesque Anglican church building made of hewn stone and tucked in a quiet hollow of Oxford. We walked through the old empty building where Lewis and his brother used to sit through the homily until five minutes before the end of the service, at which time they would sneak out the back door to beat the lunch rush at the pub down the street.
Behind the church is the cemetery where Lewis is buried. My wife and I stood at his grave feeling the peace of the place: the long-haired cows tearing grass from the hill visible through leafy bowers, the sun pushing through gray English skies as soft and easy as a yawn, the green of new grass well-kept. As hokey as it sounds, I felt like we were in the Shire, and I suppose that in a way that’s exactly where we were.
The tour ended at the Eagle and Child, the pub where the Inklings often met for beer, friendship, and the sharing of their latest writings. I dragged my wife inside and promptly ordered fish and chips at the table where Tolkien, Lewis, his brother Warren, Charles Williams, and others once enjoyed one another’s company. I felt bashful and self-conscious about going so far out of my way (with my patient wife in tow) to visit these places. What did I expect to find there? I’m not sure what’s so fascinating to me about these men and their works, their approach to creativity and their understanding of the source of it all. Their brilliance was remarkable; they were Christians, intellectuals, and yet childlike enough to love stories and seek fellowship in their making.
London itself was a wellspring of inspiration for me. We strolled through Kensington Gardens where Peter Pan was born, ate still more fish and chips in pubs that had welcomed travelers for four hundred years, I thought about Robin Hood, George MacDonald, Harry Potter, King Arthur, and Shakespeare. And of course, I thought about the gospel. History breathes in London, seeps through the cobbles and like mist it rises from the Thames. It’s easy to see why so many beloved stories have sprung from England’s imagination.
History swept me up when I walked beneath the portcullis of the Tower of London, when I took communion in Westminster Abbey among the tombs of long-dead kings. The blood and body of Christ, shed for you, peasants and kings, pagans and priests. The feast at the table is good and gives life, and is your only hope for meaning and peace and rest from the baying of the hounds at your heels, because Death and Sin and Hatred pursue you and would swallow you up if not for the strong voice of Jesus saying “Peace. Be still.” And at his word the dogs snap back into the darkness with a yelp as if reaching the limit of their chains. History belittles us. Its story is one of conquest and murder and vast darkness, and the noblest of men ends up as dead as the thief. I realized as I walked through the hall of kings in the Abbey that my time here is brief and my earthly crowns are worthless as chaff; the words of my epitaph will ring hollow lest they point to the fullness of Christ.
Which brings me back to Oxford. Ron, our tour guide, told us that he once asked a hundred people on the streets of Oxford who C.S. Lewis was and none could tell him. None. A few wrinkled their eyebrows and asked if he was “that Alice in Wonderland” guy. He told us that when he started giving the tours of Lewis’s time at Oxford, his tomb was overgrown and covered with mildew, its words barely legible. But for a relative handful of people (most of them Americans) who know about Aslan and the Deep Magic and the High Countries, the world knows little about Lewis and lauds him not. But the marks this man’s stories left on my soul–the gospel in his stories–are deep and lasting and I believe I’ll one day show them to him.
I believe strongly in the value of the artists in this world. I believe that when someone who was made to strive to create beauty in the world is, as Brennan Manning said, “ambushed by Jesus,” the art that results bears a God-given power that draws men to Christ. I have encountered that power in the sub-creations of Christ-followers countless times. (I’ve also encountered it in the works of those who haven’t yet succumbed to the source of their gifting.) Those works of art have helped me to better understand the Bible and its author, they have given me the tools with which to worship, to serve, to revel in the greatness of the Maker.
Those works of art are the fruit of obedience to the artist’s calling. The burden God places on each of us is to become who we are meant to be. We are most fully ourselves when Christ most fully lives in us and through us; the mother shines brightest with her child in her arms, the father when he forgives his wandering son, and the artist when he or she is drawing attention to grace by showing the pinprick of light overcoming the darkness in the painting or the story or the song.
The world knows darkness. Christ came into the world to show us light. I have seen it, have been blinded by it, invaded by it, and I will tell its story. I cannot help but see that story everywhere I look. I see it when I am full of joy and weightless as a cloud, and I see it when grief and self-loathing root me to the cold earth; it is remembering the story, Christ whispering it in my ear, that kills the despair, sets me gently on the donkey, and takes me to an inn to recover from the wounds. How can I keep myself from singing?
The Rabbit Room is a place for stories. For artists who believe in the power of old tales, tales as old as the earth itself, who find hope in them and beauty in the shadows and in the light and in the source of the light.
After my fish and chips in the back room of the Eagle and Child, I noticed a paper sign attached to the gable. On it was written the name of the little room where the Inklings met: the Rabbit Room. I don’t know why it was called that. There was no explanation to be found. But the name struck me, stuck with me, and grew into this website. Here you’ll find writings and reviews by artists and appreciators of art, conversations about creation, storytelling, songwriting, and the long journey of becoming who we’re meant to be.
I also wanted to provide a place where you could support some of these artists and writers by purchasing from the Rabbit Room store (as opposed to some gargantuan bookseller). Sure, you may find the book or CD cheaper elsewhere, but here you’ll help sustain the ministry of some of these artists and writers, and you’ll be supporting this place where I hope you’ll come for support and sustenance of your own. The books and CDs for sale in the store each tell the old, old story in their way, and I believe that they have the potential to be a balm for you in your long journey.
So pull up a chair and join us. The fish and chips are fattening, but so, so good. You can find the Rabbit Room community blog on Facebook here. Join us if you are of like mind and heart.
The Warren, Nashville
Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter and author. Andrew has released more than ten records over the past twenty years, earning him a reputation for songs that connect with his listeners in ways equally powerful, poetic, and intimate. As an author, Andrew’s books include the four volumes of the award-winning Wingfeather Saga, released in collectible hardcover editions through Random House in 2020, and his creative memoir, Adorning the Dark, released in 2019 through B&H Publishing.
Charmayne Hafen, children’s author
Did you also hear?
The scandalous election season report of an assault carried out on a 12-year-old boy holding a political sign in Boulder, Colorado set me off. The father of the boy, Jesse Rosales, “told officers his son came home from a bike ride early Monday afternoon and told him a woman had assaulted him.”
If I allow myself to watch the news, I hear of a new shooting or beating almost every day. Evil seems to be erupting everywhere.
I find it difficult to know how to respond to evil as I strive to uphold my belief that all people are created in God’s image. I want to live out the truth of the Imago Dei while keeping my head above the sand. Denial helps no one.
Maybe it’s partiality to protect the innocents, but I’ve been in a mild rage over the last few days as I see our country imploding. I know intellectually that I cannot control the actions of another person. Emotionally, I want to scream out negativity. The only thing I can control is my reaction to the insanity. How do I respond as a Christian to what I see going on around me?
I love to memorize verses and passages in the Bible. Romans 12:21 has been in the forefront of my mind for at least a month now. I asked God what my response needs to be in the face of evil. He told me very clearly how to handle it. “Do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with good.”
The more I focus on the evil so rampant in our country, the more violent I feel inside. How strange a turn! I want to take action and lash out. When I ruminate on all that is wrong, I find myself spiraling downward. In a short time, I’m having thoughts about doing things I so vehemently oppose.
“Do not be overcome by evil but overcome evil with good.” I’ve heard true-life stories of good overcoming evil. It’s late at night and a man standing in a subway station is accosted by a robber. The robber has no jacket and so the man offers him his coat. He offers to buy the criminal something to eat. In a short while, the thief gives his life to Christ.
I have a story from my life. I worked with someone who liked to slander and gossip. She eventually got around to calling me a choice name to a mutual friend. Only by God’s grace did I decide to talk to her in private instead of saying something negative about her to the mutual friend. I told her I heard she had called me a choice name and wondered if I had offended her in some way. She apologized, said it was a joke. There was never an issue again.
How do we overcome evil with good? Here are some practical ways to live this out.
- Be kind to people I encounter daily
- Get out and meet people
- Make a priority to give
- Spend time loving my family
- Invest time in the gifts God has given me
- Actively listen to other people
In Return To Twilight, the second book of my Land of Twilight trilogy, Sam must face the challenge of overcoming an evil influence on his best friend, Lorna. Lorna is not acting like herself. She follows the lead of Jenny, the new girl in the neighborhood, and treats Sam poorly. He has to decide how he will react to her bad behavior.
My focus must be on the good God has placed in my life. I have a precious and priceless family and friends. I have the gift of writing which brings me so much joy. I have resources and the ability to influence other people. When I think about these things or ponder “whatever is true… whatever is lovely,” (Philippians 4:8), evil shrivels in the light. I’m still aware of what is going on, but I am not overwhelmed and I do not become part of the hatred.
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
©Capture Books and its authors are happily represented by the publicity of Books for Bonding Hearts where you will find several children’s books of high literary quality.