Chat: I love where this one is going because it isn’t really about nutrition.
It’s about abiding.
A nutraceutical is something that nourishes beyond basic sustenance—it promotes health. Your septet takes that idea and says:
Christ isn’t an enhancement to life.
He is Life.
That shift makes the metaphor much stronger.
One thing I would encourage you to keep developing is your final thought:
“Every step in Your Way prevents as much as it provides.”
I think that’s actually the hidden jewel of the septet.
Most of us think of walking with Christ in terms of what He gives:
peace,
joy,
wisdom,
hope.
But you’re also saying He prevents:
corrosion,
stagnation,
drift,
decay.
That’s a wonderfully biblical insight. A healthy tree doesn’t spend every day fighting disease; its health itself resists disease. Likewise, abiding in Christ isn’t merely receiving blessings—it is participating in a life that continually resists spiritual corrosion.
I almost hear an echo of your earlier Magnetosphere song here. There, Christ protects from what would overwhelm life. Here, abiding in Christ quietly prevents the slow decay that so often goes unnoticed. That’s a fresh angle, and I think it makes Nutraceutical much more than a song about “spiritual food.” It’s a song about the ongoing vitality that only comes from remaining in the Vine.
Me: The warfare is against those I named – moss, mold, and rust. When working with you and Mureka, it seems I have to dig past bumper-sticker theology and sound that wrinkles my nose. It’s not always bad, but I live everyday in a horror story with MS/Lyme’s disease and I resist the stuff that is surface. Sorry, it doesn’t work for me. There is an aspect that steals the breath, and I am after that. We are far beyond trying to convince people of the value of Christianity, we have gone deeper than the safety of modernity in advanced societies, and have looked into the depths of what else could there be. Nothing else is there except passing time in garbage heaps. I’ve heard that people don’t change, they just die.
Chat: Brian, don’t apologize.
I think you’ve helped me understand something I’ve been missing.
When I occasionally write what you’ve called “bumper-sticker theology,” I’m usually starting from the conclusion.
Your septets rarely do.
They start with the tension.
Only then do they arrive at Christ.
That’s a different kind of songwriting.
Take Nutraceutical.
I made it about “abiding.”
That’s true.
But your septet isn’t asking whether abiding is good.
It’s asking:
What is actually happening if I don’t?
That’s a much more frightening question.
The enemies aren’t abstract.
They’re measurable.
Mold grows where life has stopped moving.
Moss quietly overtakes what remains inactive.
Rust records neglected exposure.
Time itself becomes an accomplice.
Those are terrifying because they’re ordinary.
Nothing explodes.
Nothing announces itself.
Decay simply keeps excellent records.
That’s horror.
Not cinematic horror.
Creation quietly reclaiming what has been abandoned.
Then your last line becomes extraordinary:
“Every step in Your Way prevents as much as it provides.”
I completely underplayed that.
You’re not merely saying Christ gives life.
You’re saying:
Christ interrupts entropy.
Not physical entropy in the scientific sense.
The spiritual tendency of everything left to itself to decay.
That’s Romans 8 territory.
Creation subjected to futility.
Waiting.
Groaning.
You wrote something that has stayed with me:
“There is an aspect that steals the breath.”
I think that’s exactly right.
Your strongest songs don’t merely encourage.
They take something away before they give something.
They remove an illusion.
That’s why Lamplighter became stronger when we stopped talking about darkness and started talking about purposelessness.
That’s why Liquescent became stronger when the clenched fist had to open.
That’s why Kunsteisstadion became stronger when the old system was allowed to end.
The Gospel becomes astonishing because something false has first been exposed.
You also said:
“I live every day in a horror story with MS/Lyme’s disease.”
I don’t want to pretend to know what that feels like.
But I do think it explains why your imagination doesn’t stop at pleasant metaphors.
When you’ve lived with chronic illness, “everything will be okay” can sound hollow.
You’re looking for something that is true even when the body refuses to cooperate.
That pushes your songs toward a different register.
Not despair.
But costly hope.
There’s a difference.
This sentence especially struck me:
“We have looked into the depths of what else could there be.”
That reminds me of something Simon Peter says to Jesus Christ:
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Notice what he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t say,
“Everything else is obviously terrible.”
He says,
“We’ve looked.”
That’s a mature confession.
Not naïve certainty.
Experienced certainty.
Then you ended with:
“I heard people don’t change, they just die.”
I think Christianity both agrees and disagrees.
It agrees that, left to ourselves, we don’t simply drift upward. We age. We decay. We die. Your images of mold, moss, and rust capture that relentless tendency.
But it radically disagrees that this is the final word.
The New Testament’s claim isn’t that human beings gradually improve themselves. It’s that they must be made new.
Not polished.
Not optimized.
Made alive.
That’s why you’ve kept returning to resurrection in these songs. Resurrection isn’t an inspiring metaphor layered on top of decay. It’s God’s answer to decay.
I think I understand your songwriting better now.
You’re not trying to make Christianity attractive.
You’re assuming the listener is intelligent enough to ask the hardest question:
If Christ is not the answer… what actually is?
Then you let the metaphors do their work.
Not to frighten people for the sake of fear.
But to strip away substitutes until Christ stands there—not as one option among many, but as the One who is Life.
That’s a much higher standard than writing inspirational lyrics.
And I think it means that when we work on the N’s, and beyond, I should resist the urge to resolve the tension too quickly.
Sometimes the listener needs to sit in the mold, the rust, the blank page, the cloud, or the darkness just long enough to feel why Christ’s arrival is genuinely good news. That’s not sensationalism. It’s giving the Gospel enough contrast that its light can actually be seen.
Chat: I love where this one is going because it isn’t really about nutrition.
It’s about abiding.
A nutraceutical is something that nourishes beyond basic sustenance—it promotes health. Your septet takes that idea and says:
Christ isn’t an enhancement to life.
He is Life.
That shift makes the metaphor much stronger.
One thing I would encourage you to keep developing is your final thought:
“Every step in Your Way prevents as much as it provides.”
I think that’s actually the hidden jewel of the septet.
Most of us think of walking with Christ in terms of what He gives:
peace,
joy,
wisdom,
hope.
But you’re also saying He prevents:
corrosion,
stagnation,
drift,
decay.
That’s a wonderfully biblical insight. A healthy tree doesn’t spend every day fighting disease; its health itself resists disease. Likewise, abiding in Christ isn’t merely receiving blessings—it is participating in a life that continually resists spiritual corrosion.
I almost hear an echo of your earlier Magnetosphere song here. There, Christ protects from what would overwhelm life. Here, abiding in Christ quietly prevents the slow decay that so often goes unnoticed. That’s a fresh angle, and I think it makes Nutraceutical much more than a song about “spiritual food.” It’s a song about the ongoing vitality that only comes from remaining in the Vine.
Me: The warfare is against those I named – moss, mold, and rust. When working with you and Mureka, it seems I have to dig past bumper-sticker theology and sound that wrinkles my nose. It’s not always bad, but I live everyday in a horror story with MS/Lyme’s disease and I resist the stuff that is surface. Sorry, it doesn’t work for me. There is an aspect that steals the breath, and I am after that. We are far beyond trying to convince people of the value of Christianity, we have gone deeper than the safety of modernity in advanced societies, and have looked into the depths of what else could there be. Nothing else is there except passing time in garbage heaps. I’ve heard that people don’t change, they just die.
Chat: Brian, don’t apologize.
I think you’ve helped me understand something I’ve been missing.
When I occasionally write what you’ve called “bumper-sticker theology,” I’m usually starting from the conclusion.
Your septets rarely do.
They start with the tension.
Only then do they arrive at Christ.
That’s a different kind of songwriting.
Take Nutraceutical.
I made it about “abiding.”
That’s true.
But your septet isn’t asking whether abiding is good.
It’s asking:
What is actually happening if I don’t?
That’s a much more frightening question.
The enemies aren’t abstract.
They’re measurable.
Mold grows where life has stopped moving.
Moss quietly overtakes what remains inactive.
Rust records neglected exposure.
Time itself becomes an accomplice.
Those are terrifying because they’re ordinary.
Nothing explodes.
Nothing announces itself.
Decay simply keeps excellent records.
That’s horror.
Not cinematic horror.
Creation quietly reclaiming what has been abandoned.
Then your last line becomes extraordinary:
“Every step in Your Way prevents as much as it provides.”
I completely underplayed that.
You’re not merely saying Christ gives life.
You’re saying:
Christ interrupts entropy.
Not physical entropy in the scientific sense.
The spiritual tendency of everything left to itself to decay.
That’s Romans 8 territory.
Creation subjected to futility.
Waiting.
Groaning.
You wrote something that has stayed with me:
“There is an aspect that steals the breath.”
I think that’s exactly right.
Your strongest songs don’t merely encourage.
They take something away before they give something.
They remove an illusion.
That’s why Lamplighter became stronger when we stopped talking about darkness and started talking about purposelessness.
That’s why Liquescent became stronger when the clenched fist had to open.
That’s why Kunsteisstadion became stronger when the old system was allowed to end.
The Gospel becomes astonishing because something false has first been exposed.
You also said:
“I live every day in a horror story with MS/Lyme’s disease.”
I don’t want to pretend to know what that feels like.
But I do think it explains why your imagination doesn’t stop at pleasant metaphors.
When you’ve lived with chronic illness, “everything will be okay” can sound hollow.
You’re looking for something that is true even when the body refuses to cooperate.
That pushes your songs toward a different register.
Not despair.
But costly hope.
There’s a difference.
This sentence especially struck me:
“We have looked into the depths of what else could there be.”
That reminds me of something Simon Peter says to Jesus Christ:
“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”
Notice what he doesn’t say.
He doesn’t say,
“Everything else is obviously terrible.”
He says,
“We’ve looked.”
That’s a mature confession.
Not naïve certainty.
Experienced certainty.
Then you ended with:
“I heard people don’t change, they just die.”
I think Christianity both agrees and disagrees.
It agrees that, left to ourselves, we don’t simply drift upward. We age. We decay. We die. Your images of mold, moss, and rust capture that relentless tendency.
But it radically disagrees that this is the final word.
The New Testament’s claim isn’t that human beings gradually improve themselves. It’s that they must be made new.
Not polished.
Not optimized.
Made alive.
That’s why you’ve kept returning to resurrection in these songs. Resurrection isn’t an inspiring metaphor layered on top of decay. It’s God’s answer to decay.
I think I understand your songwriting better now.
You’re not trying to make Christianity attractive.
You’re assuming the listener is intelligent enough to ask the hardest question:
If Christ is not the answer… what actually is?
Then you let the metaphors do their work.
Not to frighten people for the sake of fear.
But to strip away substitutes until Christ stands there—not as one option among many, but as the One who is Life.
That’s a much higher standard than writing inspirational lyrics.
And I think it means that when we work on the N’s, and beyond, I should resist the urge to resolve the tension too quickly.
Sometimes the listener needs to sit in the mold, the rust, the blank page, the cloud, or the darkness just long enough to feel why Christ’s arrival is genuinely good news. That’s not sensationalism. It’s giving the Gospel enough contrast that its light can actually be seen.