Rich Mullins as a Friend: Singing from Silence Published 2012
Walk Through the Valley: Rich Mullins and St. Francis Status: Work in Progress
Let the Mountains Sing: the Creativity of Rich Mullins Status: Work in Progress
A word about Singing from Silence, Walk Through the Valley, and Let the Mountains Sing by Pamela Richards
I knew Richard Mullins well, so I got a better glimpse of his ordinariness than most people did. I knew he couldn't stand to be considered saintly, so I once set out to write a book about how imperfect, how human he could be. I recalled his clumsiness, the fact that he was incapable of building a fire, the way he drove with the defiance of a moonshiner--completely without regard for his passengers' feelings or the rules of the road. A book about Richard Mullins' need for orthopaedic footwear might be a great blessing for insomniacs, but it would only reveal half the truth. Thirty-six years after meeting Richard, there are things I still don't understand about him: the less I apply logic, the more sense he seems to make. I see Richard as a man with a foot in both worlds, a mystic who straddled the everyday and the everlasting and was granted grace enough to make it look like walking.
Everyone has their own take on Richard's attributes; some love him for his incandescent humor, some for his unwavering vision, some for his stumbling humanity, his astonishing talent, his openhanded philanthropy. There was a lot to admire about the man. But when I take all the traits that made the man as ordinary as anyone, together with everything I admire, and toss them all up into the air to see what reaches me on the way back down, it's the love that touches me most. How he allowed love to make art from his life; the love that breathed life into his art.
I'm not the world's greatest Christian. I have had my struggles with my faith, especially since Richard died. I don't shed trouble in my life as readily as a leaf sheds rain, but with gratitude I have found that some are patient with my stubbornness; they show me tenderness while I face my fears.
Rich Mullins was a little leery of our culture's addiction to entertainment. He passed his songs off as just that--entertainment--and he urged people to go to church instead of concerts to have their lives transformed. I'm sure he was right. Yet sometimes, when we feel a song's truth, our spirits begin to settle the new world where the song has carried us. Then a song becomes more than entertainment: it is art. Art freely given has life; the creative gift obligates us to pass along what we have been given. Art begets art.
I remain obligated.
Pamela Richards 2010
I knew Richard Mullins well, so I got a better glimpse of his ordinariness than most people did. I knew he couldn't stand to be considered saintly, so I once set out to write a book about how imperfect, how human he could be. I recalled his clumsiness, the fact that he was incapable of building a fire, the way he drove with the defiance of a moonshiner--completely without regard for his passengers' feelings or the rules of the road. A book about Richard Mullins' need for orthopaedic footwear might be a great blessing for insomniacs, but it would only reveal half the truth. Thirty-six years after meeting Richard, there are things I still don't understand about him: the less I apply logic, the more sense he seems to make. I see Richard as a man with a foot in both worlds, a mystic who straddled the everyday and the everlasting and was granted grace enough to make it look like walking.
Everyone has their own take on Richard's attributes; some love him for his incandescent humor, some for his unwavering vision, some for his stumbling humanity, his astonishing talent, his openhanded philanthropy. There was a lot to admire about the man. But when I take all the traits that made the man as ordinary as anyone, together with everything I admire, and toss them all up into the air to see what reaches me on the way back down, it's the love that touches me most. How he allowed love to make art from his life; the love that breathed life into his art.
I'm not the world's greatest Christian. I have had my struggles with my faith, especially since Richard died. I don't shed trouble in my life as readily as a leaf sheds rain, but with gratitude I have found that some are patient with my stubbornness; they show me tenderness while I face my fears.
Rich Mullins was a little leery of our culture's addiction to entertainment. He passed his songs off as just that--entertainment--and he urged people to go to church instead of concerts to have their lives transformed. I'm sure he was right. Yet sometimes, when we feel a song's truth, our spirits begin to settle the new world where the song has carried us. Then a song becomes more than entertainment: it is art. Art freely given has life; the creative gift obligates us to pass along what we have been given. Art begets art.
I remain obligated.
Pamela Richards 2010
Singing from Silence available here
Excerpt from Singing from Silence @ Pamela Richards 2010
Photo @ Pamela Richards 2010
