about
More studio than institute, more workshop than ministry, more porch than podium, birdhouse is a collaborative endeavor of family and friends, offering a place for pastors, theologians, artists, and layfolk to explore their talents and gifts along the lines of gospel-enchantment (fantasy, humor, and lark).
vision
because Christ did things for keeps
Tall is the disenchantment of the postmodern age. Where hard-fought distraction takes the place of faith, song gives way to fleeting hope, and all things beloved are played for keeps. Tall is the disenchantment of the age, and it must stoop to get through the doors of grace.
Birdhouse is a declaration that war is over, and the party can begin. It is our humble attempt to help one another stoop through the doorway to the celebrations in the street: a doubled-over joy grabbing at the knees of our gospel-bored solemness with a laughter louder than the world can imagine, deeper than this age can hope, and more childlike than we dare remember. It is an offer of place where faith pictures grace not seen, humor sings of resurrection hope, and the providence of God grants the freedom to pretend without the fear of playing for keeps. In short, this is our attempt at building some birdhouses; some safe places in the forestry of the age in which to leisure and from which we will sing of the good news of our God (Matt. 6:25-34).
Join us in weeding out the wholly-bored, all too serious, disenchantment of the age, and come help us plant a garden of holy-buffoonery for Christ in its place. In other words, the war is over so come outside and play. Come join in on the greatest joke ever told: the death of death in the death of Christ, for a world dying to hear the enchanted laughter of heaven.
approach
food for the party
birdseed
devotionals and sermons
Birdseed is the small and daily mercies of God: the often overlooked, scattered low enough for even the most hurried among us to take and eat. These are brief devotions, prayers, and reflections, light enough to be gathered in passing, yet by grace sufficient to sustain a life. For man does not live by feasts alone, but by the steady provision of a Father who feeds and remembers His children.
honeysuckle
stories and art
Honeysuckle is sweetness discovered, not manufactured: beauty that grows wild along the edges of the yard and invites us to taste and see. Here art, poetry, and image offer themselves not as arguments but as gifts: small indulgences of delight that train the senses toward wonder. In a world grown dull with explanation, honeysuckle reminds us that glory is often best received, not solved.
caterpillars
theological biographies
Caterpillars are the slow and living nourishment of stories: lives of others given to us that we might eat and grow. These are biographies and testimonies, accounts of grace unfolding over time, and where the theological root of our story is watered by the story of others. For we do not grow by ideas alone, but by watching what God has done, and is doing, in the lives of others.
crickets
theological articles
Crickets are the harder-won fare: the thoughtful, searching work of theology that must be pursued, caught, and considered. Here are essays, reflections, and arguments that press into the truth of things, not to burden the soul, but to strengthen it. And if you listen closely, even here there is song: a steady witness in the dark that the world is not as it seems, and that Christ is Lord of it all.
theme of the party
fantasy (faith)
evangelical on the plot
Fantasy is the refusal to grant the world its supposed finality. It is the quiet insistence that what is seen is not all that is, and that the given world (good though it is) is not yet the whole story. Where disenchantment flattens the turned earth of the age (turned by the incarnation) with a slumbering stumble of distraction, fantasy startles the gospel-seeds from the white knuckles of our non-fictioned grip on life with a shout and song about a man who died but didn’t stay that way. And there in that dirt the seeds die to resurrect—and we call it faith. For the Christian, fantasy is no idle escape but an act of trust in the God who forgives sinners and raises the dead: a humble confession that creation is charged with more than meets the eye, and that the one who died and rose again is not finished speaking that story of resurrection. Fantasy, then, is not a denial of reality but a deeper submission to it as it is, groaning for a kingdom not yet seen, yet already breaking in through the one true myth of the gospel. In this way, birdhouse cultivates an evangelical expression in our confession of the plot, the story, of history and redemption.
Here you will find theological and philosophical reflections and book reviews on imagination; imaginative writings and visual art; world-building prompts (and the occasional gift to stir the play along); imaginative exegesis that peers at Scripture with sanctified wonder; and, of course, poetry and short stories. These are our small attempts at loosening the grip of a disillusioned age. Acts of faithful make-believe that, by grace, become acts of seeing. Birdhouse invites you to take up your sword and go after the dragon, all the while remembering that the damsel in distress is you—and Christ has come, is come, and will come again to slay the beast.
humor (hope)
life of the party
Humor is the holy art of not taking the world at its own overstatement. It is the glad refusal to grant sin, suffering, and self-importance the final word. Where disenchantment grows vine-heavy with its own serious insistence to be wholly and boringly dead to hope, humor lightens the monotony with a honeysuckle haphazardness that refuses to be dimmed to death by the somber patchwork of this guilt-sodded age. And in that refusal, hope throws a party. For the Christian, this hilaritas is not a retreat from the serious things of life, but a birdsong of resurrection hope when the world would have us whisper of its absence: a hope-filled confession that death has lost its sting, that the grave has been made ridiculous, and that no tyranny—whether of despair or dignity—can stand long before the risen Christ. To laugh, then, is to hope, to agree with heaven, to echo the hilarious mirth of a God who has already overturned the world’s most solemn claims, and to join in on the greatest joke ever told: the death of death in the death of Christ. In this way, birdhouse seeks to plant a way of life that is the life of the party.
Here you will find theological and philosophical reflections and book reviews on humor; comedic writings and short films; joke contests (and the occasional prize to sweeten the folly); humorous exegesis that dares to smile within the text; and comic strips and jokes of all sorts. These are our small attempts at planting flowers in the dimming of the self-serious age. Acts of faithful laughter that, by grace, become acts of hope. Birdhouse invites you to let go of the weight of your pharisaical seriousness and be a buffoon for Christ. Who knows, maybe in the process you’ll kill that man-pleasing fear of yours and grow hope in a God who is already pleased with you in Christ.
lark (love)
catholic on the playground
Lark is the make-believing of a child no longer playing for keeps, but simply delighting in the acceptance found in Christ. Where disenchantment would have us dig up the buried treasures of our faith in hopes to see if the seed still lives and is worthy of God’s approval, play leaves the dead-to-self seed of faith and the defiant honeysuckle of hope to grow on the pasture, and it goes on chasing the dog around the playground and inviting its friends to join in. It is wasteful, unproductive, and gloriously alive with the frivolity of a child who knows their Father works all things for their good; a child who only wishes to call those too scared to go outside to come out and play. For the Christian, this is no trivial pastime but an act of love: a glad pouring out of oneself for one’s neighbor, a shared delight that refuses to keep score and mirrors the generosity of the Giver, calling one another into the amusement of a Jesus who played for keeps and won—and then gave that victory freely, joyfully, and for the life and gladness of his friends. Lark, then, is the obedience of love, sprung from the split seed of faith that is watered by a resurrection hope. In this way, birdhouse seeks to reap a catholic (universal) approach to doing theology that calls the Church into the playful love of our Father.
Here you will find theological and philosophical reflections and book reviews on play; playful writings and music; reflective games (and the occasional gift to draw you in); family recipes fit for shared tables; playful exegesis that handles the text with reverent delight; and activity and craft ideas for hands that would rather make than merely manage. These are our small attempts at recovering the lost art of gladness in an age defined by results. Acts of play that, by grace, become acts of love for one another. Birdhouse invites you to come out of your need for results and measures, and pursue holiness for the fun of it. Come outside yourself, love your neighbor, kill your sin and have fun doing it, and come outside and play.
beliefs
evangelical accent
To many, our evangelical heritage feels like a stranger (obviously somebody’s parent) yelling about Calvinism and how we should all be gospel-centered in the Wednesday-night carpool line while Lifehouse sings "Everything” from the MP3 player. It was once young and restless, and now it’s “standing here until you make me move.” It is doctrinally shallow, culturally co-opted, and embarrassing us in front of our friends. It is old, out of fashion, and stubbornly refusing to move on or die. But the story is so much more than that, and birdhouse is an attempt to recover, rejoice in, and retell that story. Our evangelical heritage is not some soon-to-be-forgotten song we sang to be “radical” only to be replaced by some further back (and more angry) “r-word” that actually makes us radical. Rather, our evangelical heritage is a garden, tilled by Scripture and rooted in the enduring truths of the gospel: the authority of the Word, the centrality of Christ, the necessity of new birth, and the call to die and live again. We do not treat these relics as sterile propositions, but as soil that can still surprise us with life (and home). At birdhouse, we cultivate this inheritance with imagination, resisting the flatness of modern life (and the church) by recovering wonder in the things most true. There is humor here too (not as distraction, but as a sign that grace has not been drained by our boredom after the restlessness wore off), and play, as we learn again how to delight in what God has made to grow. In this way, we are not escaping the age’s disenchantment so much as planting against it, trusting that even now, the garden can bloom—for homeschoolers who watched VeggieTales, the rest of the youth kids who listened to Relient K, and even the kids bussed in from the trailer park who only come for the free pizza. And bloom it will, with the gospel-centered, restless play of a child. This means that at birdhouse we will insist on the fact that Jesus died on a cross, and that you must die too; that Jesus resurrected from the tomb, and that you will, if you die by faith, resurrect too; and that you must live like that story is true by killing your sin, and having fun doing it. Whether you hold to a Confession, or merely confess these things to be true; call yourself Anglican, Presbyterian, Baptist, or some other set of adjectives that set you apart—as long as you call us back to this gospel, we will call you friend.
catholic posture
To many, our talk of catholicity also feels like a stranger (definitely somebody’s older cousin) who just got back from a semester abroad, swirling a glass of something expensive, dropping names from church history, and telling us (in not so subtle ways) that because he’s [insert adjective] catholic, we should all listen to him about who gets in to the party and who we should keep out. Emphasis on the latter. Talk of catholicity can often replace a posture of openness at the party with propositions on how to throw a party where everyone is interesting, no one is actually honest, and the only thing thrown is you—out, if you disagree with us. But the party of the Kingdom is so much more than that, and birdhouse is an attempt to let Jesus host that party. Here, we believe that theology is an exercise in being quick to listen and slow to speak. So we pull up chairs for voices outside of our little family, refusing to reduce them to their worst sentences, and all the while calling them brothers and sisters in Christ, in the Kingdom, in the party, in on the joke. This requires imagination (to see the work of God where we do not expect it), humor (to laugh where we disagree instead of lashing out), and play (as we learn to enjoy the weird and surprising ways grace shows up at the table). In a disenchanted age that has turned disagreement into exile, we are trying something better: a place where the older cousin can grab a SunnyD while admitting that his favorite theologian is actually some liberal (or even worse, an evangelical) he’s publicly canceled. This is a party where the music may change, the accents may be unfamiliar, and someone will inevitably say something awkward, but the feast will go on. This is a party for the confessional and the curious, the careful and the loud, the ones who bring a well-worn tradition and the ones worn out with trying to label whatever it is they believe. If you come hungry, willing to love the truth and your neighbor, we will set a place for you, and we will trust that Christ, who won the war, knows how to host the party.