Evan Rosa: For the Life of the World is a production of the Yale Center for Faith and Culture. For more information,visit faith.yale.edu.

Christian Wiman: Traditional criticisms of Christianity, whether it's by Marx or Nietzsche, of it being escapist—and of course there's truth to them—but a really vital Christianity, it's not true at all that it's escapist. It's quite the opposite. It's like, it's taking life by the throat, is what Robert Frost said poetry was. It's like that Schmemann notion of bright sorrow. Neither one outweighs the other. You always see them both at the same time.

Evan Rosa: This is For the Life of the World, a podcast about seeking and living a life worthy of our humanity.

I'm Evan Rosa, with the Yale Center for Faith and Culture. This has been a week of mixed feelings in an era of mixed feelings, in a species of mixed feelings. That tense twist in your gut, the shallow sleep and the "Uh Oh" feeling, the almost constant temptation to gorge on the news or the endless commentary and advice from the many in searching for the wisdom of the few, the prolonged, protracted national conflict and who counts in a close race, the rising and falling of illness and health, life and death, right and left and everything in between. So this is a week for poetry. As our guest today reminds us, the poet W.H. Auden once said that a good poem is the clear expression of mixed feelings. And that guest is the poet Christian Wiman, Professor of the Practiceof Religion and Literature at Yale Divinity School.

He's the author of several books of poetry, including Every Riven Thing, Hammer is the Prayer, and his most recent Survival is a Style. His memoirs include the bracing and beautiful My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer and He Held Radical Light: the Art of Faith, the Faith of Art. He edited an anthology of 100 poems on joy a few years ago, and is currently putting finishing touches on another 100 poems, this time on home.

Our guest on the show last week, the novelist Marilynne Robinson says of Wiman "His poetry and scholarship have a purifying urgency that is rare in this world. This puts him at the very source of theology and enables him to say new things in timeless language so that the reader's surprise and assent are one and the same."

In this episode, Miroslav Volf and Christian Wiman, as colleagues, as friends, give voice to the mixed feelings so many of us sense right now, talking about faith, the mashing up of home and exile, joy, and sorrow, saint and sinner. And Chris reads some of the poetry that will be appearing in his anthology next year.

My recommendation let the poetry, even if just for a moment, be a salve. Enjoy.

Miroslav Volf: Chris, you just edited the collection of poems on home. So what drew you to the idea of home or to a kind of exploration in poetry of the experience of home?

Christian Wiman: Years ago, Miroslav, I wrote an essay called "On Being Nowhere." It was about very much feeling not at home anywhere, and taking as a kind of mantra Simone Weil's notion that we must take the feeling of being at home into exile. We must be rooted in the absence of a place. And for me, that became a kind of credo. One point in my life I moved 40 times in 15 years, and I just have never felt the sense of a home and still don't.

And so part of this project was very much personal and existential. It was  trying to figure out, what might that feel like?

Miroslav Volf: Yeah. But of course you have...  you're married and you have two wonderful girls, and you have a place. Well, what would you call that?

Christian Wiman: They are home. Definitely. They are home. But it's just not a place. I feel like I could lose every bit of the place without a shadow of sadness, really. But they are very much home. And so I do understand it, that feeling of home in that sense, in a way that I never have in the past. You have, I think, a very helpful idea of the resonance of objects as comprising  a part of one's feeling of home. And I think I find that very helpful and actually my class, they read that essay. And we talked about that for a while.

Miroslav Volf: Did I hear you say that you don't feel that resonance?

Christian Wiman: I don't. I feel it in pawn sometimes, and I feel that poetry enables me to understand it, but, and I believe you're right in that idea, but personally I don't feel it. I'm not attached to any objects or anything like that.

Miroslav Volf: That's really interesting.  If I recall correctly, you were completing this right in the middle of the pandemic. And here we are thinking about  all this wealth of mainly modern, right, poetry on home in the midst of pandemic,which it seems like it has both heightened the importance of home in some ways, but also burdened the home with something that it might not be able to bear without some training, because suddenly we found ourselves at home for such a long, extended period of time.

What was that experience for you?

Christian Wiman: Yeah, it really did intensify the project for me because, I mean, for several reasons. One is practical. I simply had no access to libraries, and my method for doing anthologies is usually to spend a lot of time in the library and simply pull tons of books off the shelves and immerse myself in them.

And I was an editor for 10 years in Poetry magazine. I developed a capacity to read very, very quickly through a lot of material. And then to really hone in on the things that I needed. And the pandemic changed all that. You know, I was limited to the books on my shelves and what I could find on the internet. You can find a lot on the internet obviously, and you can find a lot on my shelves, but still it's a different kind of a project.

You know, with joy part of what intrigued me about it was that it's not a predictable subject for poetry. You mention that you're doing an anthology on joy, intelligent poems on joy, and a lot of people just think, well, aren't poets despairing, black clad, depressing, morose figures? And in a way that's true. But I wanted to see what joy looked like in modern poetry. And it is true that it's not ubiquitous, and it's usually ambiguous, but it's there.

Home is so ubiquitous that you can... I don't even know that you could find a poet that you couldn't have included.  Everybody has a poem about some notion of home.

Miroslav Volf: But at the same time those poets who write on homes, they, as you described them, are dark, morose and so forth, right?  That is a caricature of a few folks, I'm sure. But nonetheless, I recall also, during some of our conversations, that you mentioned how infrequent it is to find poetry on the goodness of home. They tended to be more on the loss of home or more of the kind of ambivalence of home.

Christian Wiman: The image of home is both lit and fraught at the same time. And I'm not sure if that's a reflexive instinct of poets or if it's simply because they're speaking the truth, that in fact we are going to lose whatever it is that we most love. We are heading towards something that we're not going to be able to bear, as Simon Weil says. And so if you're going to celebrate an instant, you also have to celebrate its perishability or at least acknowledge its perishability.

There's a wonderful poem that you and I talked about called "The Niagara River." I would… if I read that one...

Miroslav Volf: That would be great

Christian Wiman: By Kay Ryan, which it really brings this into focus.

This is "The Niagara River" by Kay Ryan,

as though/ the river were/ a floor, we position/ our table and chairs/ upon it, eat and/ have conversation. As it moves along,/ we notice—as/ calmly as though/ dining room paintings/ were being replaced—/ the changing scenes/ along the shore. We/ do know, we do/ know this is the/ Niagara river, but/ it is hard to remember/ what that means.

That poem really captures the essence of what I'm talking about. You know, we act, we go through our days and we tend to our homes and we take our domestic satisfactions, and there's real joy in that, but there is always this roar in the distance. And art can't help but hear that roar at the same time as it notices these details.

Miroslav Volf: And in a sense, it's naming the idea that home may function here the way in which Karl Marx described religion as functioning to divert our attention from the realities, actually, of life. The fall down the Niagara Fall may be spectacular, but it's going to occur.

Christian Wiman: Yeah, I think that's true.

But implicit would be in this poem, and I think within a lot of these poems, is that there's some suggestion, well, if you think of a river joins with the sea, and so there's a suggestion that this individual life joins up with some sort of collective life. In this instance, it's a huge Lake, but you know, big enough.

It's interesting also that the poem says it's hard to remember what that means, as if you're remembering something that's in the future, and there's a sense of having to reach back into the past for something that's ahead of you. And what the poem suggests here with that river image and remembering what's ahead of you is that there's a circularity to this that's implicit in the poem.

And for a moment the poem gives you a kind of refuge against the very thing that it says is going to destroy you. And I think that's often the case with these poems, with the lyric poem like that.

Miroslav Volf: Hmm. So in some sense, in the background, a tacit assumption of the poem itself is at least some kind of a search for home, remembrance of something, and kind of sense of... that it maybe there, but nonetheless is far from our experience?

Christian Wiman: Exactly. It's a religious perception, I think, though she would never call herself religious, but William Wordsworth said that, you know, "not at entire forgetfulness do we come, but trailing clouds of glory from heaven, which is our home."

And he saw these moments of infancy as kind of remembering of a future in the very way that she does, but he saw it as an occasion for great joy and not grief.

Miroslav Volf: Yeah, that's interesting because this was also Ernst Bloch's idea at the end of his The Principle of Hope. He speaks about what shines to us from childhood is the home, but that is really what the entire history aims to realize. So his is kind of a messianic secular vision, but operates basically on the same kind of principle.

Christian Wiman: Yeah. Yeah, there's another poem that I love by an Irish poet.

Let me read it. It's short. It's called "Innocence" by Patrick Kavanagh. And it's very much about this, that moment that you're talking about, that golden moment in childhood. This is... you talk about something being both lit and fraught at the same time. It's what's in this poem it's called "Innocence."

They laughed at one I loved-/ The triangular hill that hung/ Under the Big Forth. They said/ that I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges/ Of the little farm and did not know the world./ But I knew that love's doorway to life/ Is the same doorway everywhere./ Ashamed of what I loved/ I flung her from me and called her a ditch/ Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms/ the dew of an Indian Summer morning lies/ On bleached  potatoes-stalks/ What age am I?

I do not know what age I am,/ I am no mortal age;/ I know nothing of women,/ Nothing of cities,/ I cannot die/ Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

That's a beautiful image of a kind of immortality, implicit in a moment of childhood. And of course we know in the poem, you know, he does know about women. He knows something of cities. He's walked outside of these hedges, and yet the poem manages to recover that moment, and not simply as nostalgia, but as this vital, volatile moment to which he has spiritual access now. And that I think promises a future.

Miroslav Volf: One way to express the feeling and the perspective described in the poems that we've just read is to say, to be human is to be an exile. And this is the large theme of the biblical traditions. And I think it starts all the way in garden of Eden.

This is at the center of the story of the prodigal son. Story of the prodigal son, I take it, is a story about homelessness of the prodigal while at home, and then homelessness of the prodigal when he's in exile, and then kind of un-homing of home of the prodigal for the elder son when he arrives. This home is constantly kind of fraught when they're inside the home, and when they're outside of the home, they're also always in some kind of an exile. And I think with the older son as well, I mean, he almost lives in the home as if living in home requires a reward that he should get for the suffering of home and the work of home that he has to endure. And all of it, I think, suggests this idea that to be a human is to be in exile.

You said to be poet is to be an exile. What's the relation, as you see it between this human homelessness and poet's homelessness?

Christian Wiman: Yeah. Maybe there's not. I guess the poet is just always conscious of it. I mean, what I was referring to then is that you're always slightly displaced from what you're observing as a writer. And so that being a poet is a sense of always feeling at once that you have absolute access to a kind of reality from which you yourself are exiled. Maybe even your theologians would talk like this. You know, Kierkegaard says that anybody who creates  a system finds himself outside of it.

I understand your definition and it may just be that a poet is always conscious of it. And that humans are not. I mean, we go to art in order to make ourselves conscious of things. But often we're not. And, you know, poets are not poets most of the time. Poets are poets at random times in their lives that they can't control. And the rest of the times they're just poor slobs like everybody else.

Miroslav Volf: Is that right though? Knowing you, I'm not sure that's the case.

Christian Wiman: Oh, it's true. The minute we get off of this, I'm turning on Netflix, turning off my brain. That's it.

Miroslav Volf: Turning off your brains, but on the other hand as you walk through life there's a kind of different consciousness of where one is. And that's what I was trying to see.  

And I'm sure you're right about a poet and about yourself in a way that I cannot be. But, my sense was, maybe a kind of particular sensitivity to the exile character of a human life as a whole, an ability to bring it to consciousness and the ability to stay with rather than flee in a sense from it.

Christian Wiman: Yeah, that seems right. I mean, I wonder that when you were talking, you articulated that sense of exile, human exile, so clearly, but do you feel it yourself?

Miroslav Volf: Yeah. You know, that's interesting. I was going to thank you for inviting me to reflect on my existence, and not just as a human or even not just as a person of faith, but also as a theologian. And I feel part of my calling, part of who I am as a theologian, is to reflect on the life of faith.

And so I can take this distancing attitude toward it and then reflect on the exile character of it, reflect on the home toward which we might be striving. But as I think about those things, it strikes me that the character of Christian existence is also the character of the theological existence. And by this, I mean, you know, in the epistle to the Hebrews, Abraham is described as living in tents, while he was awaiting the city whose architect and builder is God. Or I was thinking of Jesus in the boat. And the church is often described as this vessel, Noah's ark, an analogy to Noah's ark, but also as Jesus did, when he was sleeping on the boat and when that storm came. And then I thought, well, I think some of my theological work, some of my faith, but also some of my theological work, feels like a tent or feels like a boat.

And occasionally weather is really nice and beautiful and you enjoy it, but sometimes it seems like a storm comes and then you feel unsettled, not just in faith, but also in the kind of work I do, in articulation of the faith itself.

Christian Wiman: Hmm.

Miroslav Volf: Hmm. So to me it happens, for instance, when I read things like Nietzsche. My theological and Christian temptation is Nietzsche. And I sometimes then feel, you know, he has this, in his book, Gay Science, just prior to the paragraph where he speaks about death of God, he speaks about this sea, that we are now at sea and that all theshores have disappeared, and there's our little boat. And true enough, he says often the sea is just completely calm and full of grace for us and beauty. But inevitably the times come when the sea roars and the precarity of our existence, it becomes very, very clear. And sometimes that is my experience when I read thinkers like him. That my own faith and that in my own thinking, especially when thinking about faith becomes, I don't know, threatened, but it becomes like this boat that can't quite find anchor.

Christian Wiman: Well, I was teaching Gillian Rose,the English philosopher, this past week, her last book Love's Work. And she comes to a kind of Nietzschean conclusion where you sort of have to reinvent yourself all the time and it's a kind of tragic joy that she goes through and moves through it.  I mean, Nietzsche actually uses that phrase, but she moves through tragedy to a kind of joy, and she wrote it when she was dying of cancer. And she says that there is no rest. Essentially faith means constantly—faith in her definition; she wasn't a Christian, but she did convert right before she died—her faith means this constant ability to be unmaking yourself and unmaking your reality and accepting the fact that that's the way it is.

And I had a student say, very perceptively, I thought, that he didn't want to spend his whole life building a house. Eventually he wanted a house that he could live in. And, I thought that was really good because that's my sense too. I mean, I feel very much the urgency and the reality of like Nietzche's ideas or Gillian Rose's, or a lot of the poets that are in this anthology,  but you want some sense of rest. And faith it seems to me ought to offer you some sense of rest. It shouldn't, it doesn't have to be this anxiousness all the time, I think.

Miroslav Volf: Yeah. And I certainly wouldn't describe it all the time. I might not even describe it most of the time, but once the wind blows, I realize that it's a tent. It's not a house, yet. And so,I think for me, there's a sense of dwelling, but there's a sense of dwelling that has precarity to it and not just security. And then in some ways I think that's the role, the place, of hope. That when the apostle Paul writes "in hope we are saved."

So that's where  I'm headed. And that's what I tried to articulate theologically as well. But it seems like it has to be honored. And I know what you're saying in terms o fGillian Rose and Nietzsche and his longing, what your students said, this longing for a stability. Because as soon as I come to that point, I flee back into something that's a little bit more stable than the roaring sea whose monsters have not been conquered.

Christian Wiman: The sense of: you can make a dwelling, it's not necessarily a home in some final sense, but it is a place in which the soul can dwell and be at peace for now.

Miroslav Volf: Yeah. And I'm wondering whether if we think of home as the kind of the finality of home or the perfection of home, completely being at one in something, I think maybe that's too much to expect from any home, right, let alone from home on the way.

And maybe it's stepping back away from that kind of perfection, as opposed to the total security, of home is what we need to do to be able to appreciate at-homeness for what it can deliver, what it can be.

Christian Wiman: Yeah. There's a beautiful poem in this book by Julia Randall. I don't know how many people read her much anymore, but it's called the "Bennett Springs Road." And, a lot of these poems, if I think of it, it's almost a mystical experience of home that they deliver at times. And this is one... but notice the end of this, especially, it's a shortish poem.

I knew it was there, if I'd had time to look:/ the sweet water falling over rock,/ the leaf-mold floor, secret to all but light,/ the tall boles stationed between day and night. [Wiman interjects: Boles are the boles in the trees.]

This is the heart of the mountain, not the crest./ Season and century league in some high place,/ impulsive powers that beat the peak to sand/ and scatter Appalachian on the wind.

And lie at last by the little stream that brings/ all gods to truth. On the road to Bennett Springs,/ tired of the paltry ridges, I lay down/ the last of my youth where all the gods had grown,/ became the water falling over the stone,/ became the forest-father to red men/ became the tribe of stars, both daughter and son,/ the mother of Moss, the bird that sang I am.

And just as a piece of writing, that's stunning, those last, what is it? Four or five, eight lines, where she starts from "and lie at last, by the little spring, that brings all gods to truth."

But the way that she gets from that to the the bird that's saying "I am," essentially the bird that sings "God " is absolutely beautiful.

Miroslav Volf: Is that poem included in the collection?

Christian Wiman: Yeah, it's in there.

Miroslav Volf: I think in, in introduction, at one point you write about the relationship between security and precarity. You pose it as a question. What is the right relationship of security to precarity? Can you say more about it?

Christian Wiman: Yeah, there are poems that really deal with this. There's one by Ilya Kaminsky, who immigrated from the Ukraine, and writes about  the experience of joy while black people are being killed in the streets. And essentially, you know, we go through our lives and experience these joys while incredible suffering is going on, and how are we supposed to relate to that? And he says, you know, "we pocket our phones and go to the dentist to buy shampoo, pick up the children from school, get basil. Ours is a country in which a boy shot by police lies on the pavement for hours. We see in his open mouth the nakedness of the whole nation. We watch. Watch others watch. The body of a boy lies on the pavement exactly like the body of a boy. It is a peaceful country, and it clips our citizens bodies effortlessly the way the president's wife trims her toenails. All of us still have to do the hard work of dentist appointments, of remembering to make a summer salad. Basil, tomatoes. It is a joy, tomatoes. Add a little salt. This is a time of peace. I do not hear gunshots, but watch birds splash over the backyards of the suburbs. How bright is the sky as the avenue spins on its axis? How bright is the sky? Forgive me, how bright.”

And forgive me is a little parenthetical in the last line, and is a sudden realization and exclamation, interrogation of the poet to himself about that very thing. How do I live this life in which I feel these joys while there's suffering all around me? And how do we as a country do that?

Miroslav Volf: And almost the idea that the beauty that surrounds us, or the little pleasures of home, are there to divert our attention, or at least function by diverting our attention from the real suffering that's occurring.

Christian Wiman: There has to be some way of, I don't know. I mean, you're not obligated to just live this life of flagellating yourself, though there has to be some balance between living a life of joy, because that too is a command and an obligation and an act of courage, and of attention to suffering.

There has to be some... you know, there's that poem by Primo Levi, "Shema."

Miroslav Volf: Yeah, will you read it please?

Christian Wiman: You who lives secure/ In your warm houses/ Who return at evening to find/ Hot food and friendly faces:

Consider whether this is a man,/ Who labors in the mud,/ Who knows no peace/ Who fights for a crust of bread/ Who dies at a yes or a no./ Consider whether this is a woman,/ Without hair or name/ With no more strength to remember/ Eyes empty and womb cold/ As a frog in winter.

Consider that this has been:/ I commend these words to you./ Engrave them on your hearts/ When you are in your house, when you walk on your way,/ When you build a bed, when you rise./ Repeat them to your children./ Or may your house crumble,/ Disease render you powerless,/ Your offspring avert their faces from you.

That's a powerful poem. Primo Levi, of course, was in a death camp and wrote about it very powerfully. In fact, this is the poem that leads off his memoir. And it's a prayer, you know, Shema is a prayer. And this one, it comes close to a kind of curse more than a prayer,  a curse if this attention is not paid.

Miroslav Volf: It's interesting, I think, taking us back to joy, that Schmemann— you like to quote that passage, and maybe you even drew our attention to that passage, where he talks about joy as bright sorrow.

Christian Wiman: Yeah that's a beautiful passage.

Miroslav Volf: Or you might invert it into not a felicitous phrase at all, the kind of sorrowful brightness, right?

So there is always inhabited by some sorrow the very joy that we enjoy so much. And I think also the same thing shows up, when we think about gratitude. You start being grateful for things and it's not just thatthere are things that are simultaneously happening for which you shouldn't be grateful, but that there is a lot of things for which you cannot be grateful that are conditions of possibility for precisely that for which you are grateful.

And how does one practice then gratitude—such an incredibly important human and Christian emotional stance toward the world— while you have this implicatedness of that very thing for which you're grateful, in suffering and in pain?

Christian Wiman: I noticed your conversation with Marilyn Robinson. She's a great example to me in her writing of modeling these characters, creating these characters, who are able to have these lives of faith, credible lives of faith that are credible for the very fact that they are so attentive to the suffering and the sorrow that is around them. So she's an example to me. And then there are people that you meet in life who are like that, but I feel like I'm always looking to other people. You actually seem to be very good at it in a way that I don't have. I don't feel as balanced in that regard.

Miroslav Volf: Well, I'm not sure that I do. And I don't know exactly what the balance is.

Sometimes, you know, a similar kind of problem arises when one thinks about contentment and striving, because a certain kind of contentment is a condition of possibility of gratitude and of joy as well. But then once you become content, somehow you seem to kind of betray the improvement, getting things better, because the world around us is full of needs that need to be met. And so striving should be the entirety of one's life. And I've come to think that, okay, so if we think of Sabbath as contentment and work as striving, maybe that's the relationship between the two. We have to have some kind of a dialectic between, contentment and striving, and  between gratitude and complaint, and between joy and sorrow, remembering the kinds of things that Primo Levi expresses so powerfully in that poem.

But then I feel that's a kind of cheap way to do it.

Christian Wiman: Well, I don't know how else you're going to do it. I always turned to art for my examples, but W. H. Auden said that "a good poem is the clear expression of mixed feelings." That seems to me about right. But it is—it's a joke in a way—but it is true that all of our feelings in life are mixed, and that there's a kind of vertiginous sense that, you know, we're going back and forth between them. And this was one of the reasons I think that the traditional criticisms of Christianity, whether it's by Marx or Nietzsche, of it being escapist—and of course there's truth to them—but a really vital Christianity… It's not. It's not true at all that it's escapist, it's quite the opposite. It's like it's taking life by the throat, as Robert Frost said poetry was. It's like that Schmemann notion of bright sorrow. Neither one outweighs the other. You're always seeing both at the same time.

Miroslav Volf: Yeah. Both at the same time.

That to me evokes always my favorite theologian, Martin Luther, and this experience that we actually are... in every act it's both/and, sinner and justified. I think which is correct. And maybe that's the only way to live. That our existence, even in such mixed way, is the justified existence. And then within it we strive for both the contentment and for help to others.

Christian Wiman: Yeah. I like that definition of it being both/and. Should I end with a poem?

Miroslav Volf: That would be wonderful. I was just going to suggest that.

Christian Wiman: Why don't I end with this poem by Elizabeth Bishop which I love. It's called "Filling Station." It's my favorite poem of hers. And it's about all the things we've been talking about, actually. How can a filthy little place bear any semblance of home or be a place of comfort? And what do we take from that if it's the case? If we see it? So this is a little description of a filling station.

Oh, but it is dirty!/ —this little filling station,/ oil-soaked, oil-permeated/ to a disturbing, over-all/ black translucency./ Be careful with that match!

Father wears a dirty, oil-soaked monkey suit/ that cuts him under the arms,/ and several quick and saucy/ and greasy sons assist him/  it's a family filling station,/ all quite thoroughly dirty.

Do they live in the station?/ It has a cement porch/ behind the pumps, and on it,/ a set of crushed and grease-/ impregnated wickerwork;/ on the wicker sofa/ a dirty dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide/ the only note of color—/ of certain color. They lie/ upon a big dim doily/ draping a taboret/ part of the set, beside/ a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?/ Why the taboret?/ Why, oh why, the doily?/ Embroidered in daisy stitch/ with marguerites, I think,/ and heavy with gray crochet.

Somebody embroidered the doily./ Somebody waters the plant,/ or oils it, maybe. Somebody/ arranges the rows of cans/ so that they softly say: ESSO—SO—SO—SO/ to high-strung automobiles./ Somebody loves us all.

And that seems to me wonderful the way she gets some of that humor, the wry little details and observations to suddenly an immense theological statement, but somebody loves us all. That this one little love implies a love that's available to everyone.

Miroslav Volf: That is absolutely splendid. Chris, thank you so much.

Christian Wiman: It's great talking with you Miroslav.

Evan Rosa: For the Life of the World is a production of the Yale Center for Faith and Culture at Yale Divinity School. This episode featured poet, Christian Wiman and theologian Miroslav Volf. I'm Evan Rosa, and I edited and produced the show. For more information, visit us online at . New episodes drop everySaturday and you can subscribe through any podcast app. We hope you're enjoying the show and we hope that you'd consider supporting us. Three ways that you can do that are as follows: You can share the show with a friend by text or email, and then I hope you talk about it. You could post it on your social feed, or you could open up Apple podcasts right now, just after listening to review and rate the show.

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