Benjamin Daniel (Ben Kunz) set his sights high in 2020 by releasing the first part of his Shaping Season project. Sitting at 13 songs spanning nearly 50 minutes long, this debut proved industrious to say the least. His newest album, Shelterheart, likewise is expansive, ambitious, and thoughtfully-penned. This 15-track record veers slightly from the trajectory of Shaping Season, aiming even higher as would-be simple arrangements are realized with full band instrumentation to incredible effect. In terms of content, Shelterheart demystifies the beauty of the Gospel in diary-entry fashion—themes of suffering, endurance, loss, and joy are all given proper form via proxy of deeply-personal tales.
Shelterheart was produced and mixed by Asher Peterson (son of Andrew Peterson) in Nashville with additional help from Allen Odell. Suffice it to say, the “Peterson” sound is evident throughout these songs. There is no bombastic energy, no wild crescendos or guitar solos. But there is a dynamic momentum to be found even in the quietness and lethargy of these songs. Indeed, there is paradoxical power to this album. Confidence rests on pillars of meekness and humility. These are not songs that attempt to talk over the voices on an uncertain world; instead, those voices seem unable to resist being quiet in light of this album.
The first seconds of the album conjure a feeling of levity and brightness that shimmers as brightly as ever in Kunz’s work. Strings and intricate guitar arpeggios are gentle but compelling; there’s a feeling of triumph augmented by a bit of a drum build. “Green Again” sets the bar for Kunz’s full sound, and it’s exciting. It’s incredible to hear something so full after hearing songs with little more than guitar. It’s moving to hear something so awestruck after previously ruminating on “Good God.” This feels like the full vision of “Shaping Season” realized.
“Green Again” kicks things off, and its tender veneer obscures an underlying current of emotion. “There’s a season to be held and a season to behold,” Kunz opens with careful wordplay. He wrestles with moving away from home, the cycle of life, and the glory of what’s yet to come. It’s quite an opening track as there’s plenty of dynamic paired with visceral lyrics. For no specific reason, I found myself almost wanting to cry at points. There’s a longing for a recreated world laid bare where all loss and separation is undone once and for all, where the barrenness of winter gives way to new blooms. And it never feels cheesy, either. As an added bonus, the song title is naturally a reference to Andrew Peterson’s song “Remember Me.”
While the album does follow a thematic structure, there isn’t necessarily one specific angle on things. “There Are Others Here” talks largely about the simple ministry of friendship. The mission field happens in the midst of the mundane, even in the midst of late-night conversations at Waffle House. It’s written as a letter to someone as a form of encouragement and thankfulness. I’m reminded of Paul’s exhortations in his epistles where he thanks God for every memory of his recipient. I’m left with conviction of how lightly I can take some friendships and just how beautiful the connections God provides truly are. And, ultimately, Kunz takes all of this and lays it down at the throne of God—that in our inconsistencies, we should look to the one who doesn’t change.
“Stormbound (Only Way Out)” was the first single off the album, and it’s definitely one of the darker songs in some respects. Kunz reflects on the suicide of a dear friend who had lost some of the fidelity of his faith. His friend tried to find answers, unsuccessfully, apart from the Gospel—and even the healing he thought he found was like pooling rain. But Kunz notes there is a way out—specially, one way. It’s a sentiment that sounds cliché and tired to say Jesus is the answer. But Kunz does not obfuscate his intent in relaying that this simple statement carries weight of eternal consequence. Jesus was fully human in a way that even we are not. He modeled humanity to those of us bound to animal instinct. We are indeed at constant tension with who we were meant to be.
“Pour Me Out” is an indie equivalent of Wolves at the Gate’s “The Father’s Bargain,” assuming the point of Jesus and how he asks to be crushed as the sacrifice for sin. There’s a sense of urgency in the sentiments, as Jesus looks forward to his death. All of this is wrapped in a certain tenderness all the same. Kunz borrows and weaves the text of Scripture into his lyrics, and the result is beautiful and truth-filled. That’s not even touching on the single-friendly nature of the song, either—it’s catchy, with powerful melodies and strong instrumental arrangements.
It’s the incarnational nature that runs through the veins of the record—most of it isn’t from the perspective of Christ himself, but it is about what it looks like to manifest the divine in regular patterns of life. “God in the Flesh” in some ways is the template of this and unsurprisingly sits at the literal center of the record. The album folds into the reminder that Jesus, as a tangible, historical person, is in fact a comfort. The deconstruction narrative may mention God abstractly, but all of theology similarly folds into Christ—a suffering servant and man of sorrows. There is nothing abstract about where Kunz says hope lies. And it’s from this track that the rest of the album unfolds.
The second half is just as vibrant and full of depth as its counterpart. “Strange Roads” is another single, a piano-grounded track that recounts travels through the countryside. There’s even a bit of electric guitar thrown in, something that’s not all too common even despite some of the fuller songs on the album. Again, Kunz grapples with the concept of eternal home through the microcosm of the ordinary and imminent.
“Hartsfield” is an ethereal interlude of sorts, with a sermon recording paired with ambient instrumentation. The name is likely an allusion to the Atlanta airport and only adds to the transitory perspective of the album. It also provides a literal segue into “Newhall Song.”
Now on the California side of his journey, Kunz ruminates on who he is and who he hopes to become. In an age of convenient, selfish relationships, he looks toward eventual marriage:
And I know making vows
Don’t seem too rational
Not anymore
But I still do
Die for you
It’s a simple notion, perhaps—making vows, anyway. But it’s the last two lines that sum up the essence of a faith-filled union: sacrifice.
“Jesus in the Valley” as a title has a two-fold meaning: God’s presence in the low points of life and His presence with Kunz in California. It’s another emotional highlight where the loneliness is laid bare. Thankfully, so are comfort and hope.
Windmills alight in the desert dark
Nothing like home, but it pricked my heart
Wherever I am is wherever You are
So I’m happy
I can’t help but realize the conditional nature of my own comfort and the frailty of my faith at times. There’s an acknowledgement of pain and darkness, but it’s never cynical. And hope is never without context, either.
Grief is in no short supply on the album’s title track, but it’s the pain and grief that authenticates faith and builds hearts able to withstand trials. Musically, it’s incredibly upbeat, almost bearing a bluegrass flavor at times. Kunz displays the full dynamic spectrum of his voice here, from near-whispers to passionate belting. It’s not the most accessible song of the bunch, but it’s definitely a thematic zenith of the collection.
The album seamlessly binds together a story of searching for, finding, and making a home of sorts. It is an album in the truest sense, crafted with intention and rife with chiasmic structure to boot. But even so, it is never incomprehensible. There is no position of social prestige or academic prowess at play here; these are songs written for the common person and based on common (though specific) experiences. Shelterheart is ambitious in the right ways, carried by Benjamin Daniel’s desire to share hope and truth to all who offer to lend an ear.
The album begins on the fear of leaving and ends on the expectation of arrival. In fact, there are plenty of other parallels along the way to those who are attentive. The larger narrative of the album is layered and intentional, whether in regards to inter-track relationships, repeating motifs, or even the seamless nature of the record as a whole. And the sense of displacement and fear and quelled on “Better Country” as listeners are pointed forward to a nation that will never shake or fade. This seven-and-a-half-minute epic is a proper partner to “Green Again,” encapsulating the best of Kunz’s songwriting. The crescendo blooms more than it explodes, and the mood is verdant and triumphant.
Shelterheart is required listening in the midst of trite Christian pop and cynical deconstructionist rock. Kunz commits equally to truth and poetry, wrestling with the pain of suicide, the disorienting nature of moving across the country, the simplicity of friendship, and the ultimate hope found in Jesus Christ that surpasses this world. The theology of the album is carefully baked into the minutiae of normal experiences, but that arguably makes it even more powerful. The album’s cover may seem a bit cheesy or commercial, but rest assured this is a thoughtful and textured album flowing with emotion. I found myself on the verge of tears at several points. Kunz leaves nothing veiled. And the full band instrumentation is just the icing on the cake, wrapping powerful melodies in a group hug of lush arrangements that augment every bit of emotion. Shelterheart is a catechism of sorts for the twenty-first century.
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