What is Hutchmoot?
“Unexpected. Curiously delicious.”"A conference about the intersection of faith and creativity."“I’m going to hang out with my nerd friends. Stop asking questions while I’m reading.”“A gathering of Christians who try to tell the story of Jesus in all art forms.”“Hutchmoot is like a man who traveled east to see the dawn, and saw it — its first beams piercing furtively through the trees, its advancing golden fingers stealing away the silver mists; its light dancing in resolute, hopeful eyes, and playing in limbs and fingers not its own. And the man, having seen it, traveled west, back to his home, to announce: ‘Dawn is coming!’ But his face betrayed him, so that even before he could draw breath to proclaim the news, a little girl walked up to him and asked: ‘Mr. Man, what is the morning light like?'”
The infamous difficulty of describing Hutchmoot made me put off sending invitations for weeks. But eventually I did. Even better, some friends responded by coming to join me.
I've been intrigued by Hutchmoot for years, ever since growing from an Andrew Peterson fan to a Rabbit Room fan (which is almost by definition also an Andrew Peterson fan, since he and his brother founded this community to foster art and gathered artists to foster community). Rabbit Room blogs, music, book discussion groups, liturgies, and children's books have resonated with me. But Nashville in October never seemed very accessible given the fact that I was either in Cambodia or a broke and busy grad student.
This year, courtesy of COVID, Hutchmoot became Hutchmoot: Homebound, conveniently located in my living room and those of a few thousand friends. A solid weekend of content, often with 4 simultaneous sessions, was livestreamed and then posted. I knew I wanted to participate, but staring at a computer alone occupies too much of my time and defies everything that Hutchmoot stands for. Though I missed the livestream, I listened compulsively the following week during workouts, meals, bus rides, cleaning, baking, and occasionally even sitting still. The website is based on the idea of a home. Content is organized into "rooms" including the sound booth, backyard, porch, art studio, and kitchen, where the ukulele-playing chef demonstrates recipes and recites original spoken-word poetry. There's even a secret tunnel to the "Field of Glory," featuring challenges ranging from a collaborative quilting project, to leaving a mysterious note for a stranger, to reenacting a favorite movie scene, to playing "Ode to Joy" on kazoos.
The next Sunday morning, three friends and I gave Hutchmoot five hours of undivided attention. We read a liturgy aloud, watched several speakers and a one-act play, listened to music, discussed a short story, drank tea, and ate food I made following Hutchmoot recipes. Scones are a fixture of Hutchmoot conferences, so I made my first-ever scones, cranberry orange. Am I the only one who grew up reading the Redwall series, children's fantasy novels about forest animals who engage in epic battles? Their lavish victory feasts always made my mouth water, and until college they were my only exposure to scones, which sounded simply divine. So scones seemed superbly well-suited for a conference that revels in fantasy literature.
My invitation cast a wide net, and I wasn't sure who would bite, but we had an interesting combination of participants. None of these three friends really knew each other. None were from the same country. None were into quite the same form of creativity. None had ever heard of Hutchmoot or most of the presenters or artists. At least we all shared a love for Jesus, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkien, all of whom have deeply inspired Hutchmooters. Part of me was wistful that I couldn't join with fellow Peterson fans (I know several in America and one in Africa), but I'm glad these three were willing to take the plunge. My take on Hutchmoot was enriched through their perspectives: what resonated, what confused them, what parallels they saw in their own lives and work. Our time passed far too quickly for my liking, leaving me hungry for more.
Some themes that ran through multiple sessions were the need for excellent art and the power of fiction, particularly fantasy and poetry. (One conversation was inspired by Tolkien's essay "On Fairy Stories." Another is available free in this podcast on "The Integrated Imagination," republished from Hutchmoot.) Story can lower our defenses by removing us from the reality we think we know so well. It presents us with a world in which anything is possible and nothing is taken for granted. It can gnaw on our thoughts and emotions and imagination, illuminate our relationships and struggles, make us ache for something we didn't know existed, until it seeps into our very way of being. The best fiction reorients us to something truer than mere "reality" as shown in the daily news or HGTV.
I've been trying to appreciate and enjoy more nonfiction, and while the nonfiction I've read has generally shaped me in positive ways, Hutchmoot made me desperate to plunge into good stories. You too? Join me in choosing original new fiction from The Rabbit Room. I think a top contender for me is Helena Sorenson's The Door on Half-Bald Hill, which Amazon lists under the unlikely combination of "Christian allegorical fiction" and "dark fantasy horror." Prior to Hutchmoot, her name sounded vaguely familiar from Rabbit Room posts, but this month I find myself arrested by her speaking and writing.
But it wasn't all about fiction. Andrew Peterson read a chapter from his forthcoming book on trees. Trees? I went in skeptical, but it made me cry. I enjoyed seeing artists and musicians peel back the curtain and show their crafting, reflecting, and revising process. I was moved by Andy Gullahorn's song "I Will," stirred by Ruth Naomi Floyd's commentary (and demonstration) of the blues as modern-day lament, and captivated by a discussion on the Holy Spirit being breath. And what lingered perhaps most of all, what's made my fingers itch and my brain scramble unbidden to untangle melody lines and piece together lyrics, is the Arcadian Wild's 4-song EP. Please go watch their two music videos, tell me what you think, and wait impatiently with me for the next two to be released.
Truth. Beauty. Light. Darkness. Love. Sorrow. Hope. Hutchmoot was a kaleidescope refracting goodness in ever-shifting shapes and hues. Not every session was my cup of tea, but their cumulative effect on me was significant. Unlike entertainment that numbs and distracts, this seemed to heighten my emotions and plunge me into big questions.
I'm inspired by A.S. "Pete" Peterson's words on the main page:
I think it’s safe to say that one of the central, yet unspoken, tenets of the Rabbit Room is a belief in the virtue of paying attention.
The world is full of distraction, and each of us are full of the tendency to read lightly, just the headlines, and jump to conclusions, to look quickly and come to quick judgements, to listen to samples and claim we understand the whole, to see a social media update and assign a neighbor to a stereotype. We do it all the time.
One of the things I’ve most appreciated about Hutchmoot over the years is that for one weekend a year, we get to overturn those habits and tendencies. We pay our attention to good things, and in return our attention rewards us with deeper empathy for those around us, and a deeper understanding of art, music, story, and ultimately of our God and the inevitable coming of his Kingdom on earth. (emphasis added)
Touchée, Pete. You exposed my chronic distraction. For a few talks when I wasn't sitting still, I needed several listens before I could recall even the gist. I still fall for the lies that I can multi-task well, that slowing down to focus isn't realistic, that peace of mind beckons like a pot of leprechaun gold at the end of my to-do list rainbow. My addiction to busyness and efficiency threaten my ability to be fully present to unexpected joys, to think deeply, to connect. No wonder I'm left brittle and ill-equipped for life's challenges.
Hutchmoot and its many gifted contributors have renewed my reflections on how I spend my time (and why), and my desire to choose more intentionally what gets my attention. Creativity and community are inextricably intertwined, and I want to cultivate both in my life - not just in October, but all year long.
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