No one carries Rich Mullins' tattered banner quite like Andrew Peterson. Both are poets of the thin place variety, where earth and eternity brush close. Each of them craft songs that ache for transcendence over the glossy churn of CCM. Peterson's 2017 live recording at Nashville's Ryman Auditorium -- A Liturgy, A Legacy, & the Songs of Rich Mullins -- isn't just a tribute to Mullins' 1993 opus; it's a communal revelation. Split into two parts, spanning 31 tracks and over two hours, this album could tempt a critic to ramble as long as its runtime. But, like Mullins' songs, it's better experienced than over-explained, so I'll aim for brevity.

At the Ryman, 2,000 souls gathered to sing Mullins' songs, and that act was liturgy incarnate. Tracks like "52:10" and "Creed" pulse with the crowd's recognition, receiving a jolt of energy from people hungry to hear and sing these songs they know so well. They do so several times, namely at Andrew's encouragement on a truncated singalong of "Awesome God," during "Calling Out Your Name," and on my favorite Mullins song, "If I Stand." Peterson's arrangements strip these modern hymns to their essence, revealing their sturdy bones. It's no solo act -- every off-key, full-throated "hallelujah" from the audience, or harmony from the backing band, reminds us that worship thrives in the messy, shared chase for God amidst the mundane. All of it -- the playing, the singing, the songs -- leaves me in awe of a deserving Jesus. What holy moments that live setting must have been.

Rich Mullins was a wild prophet, his hammer-dulcimer hymns piercing the sanitized heart of faith with Celtic-tinged tales of doubt and grace. His legacy? Songs that still transform strangers into kin, three decades on. Peterson doesn't mimic Mullins; he echoes him, assembling a fellowship of musicians drawn by the gravity of that ragamuffin gospel. The focus is on Jesus, and the songs are the conduit of gratitude for His worthiness. From the tender opener, "Hello Old Friends," sung by Peterson himself, to the audience's eager participation on closer "Doxology," the album is littered with highlights. So as not to spoil all the delight, I will draw attention to just a handful.

Aside from the Peterson-led tracks, some other standouts are the crushingly relatable lyrics of "Hard to Get," communicated with harmonious weariness by husband and wife Andy Gullahorn and Jill Phillips. "Buenas Noches from Nacogdoches," sung by the ever-charming Leigh Nash of Sixpence None the Richer, might be THE highlight of the album. From the 1997 musical penned by Mullins, titled Canticle of the Plains, its lilting melody and mariachi-like acoustic stylings make it worth hitting repeat. Immediately following, listeners are treated to the raspy vocals of Matt Giraud, who adds some soulful angst to a performance of "Elijah." Then there's the second half of the record where Andrew and Company seek a note-for-note tribute to the 1993 Rich classic album straight through. It's an impressive goal, and one that Peterson and the band pull off flawlessly down to the ad-libbed beginning, which produced a smile from me. Laudably, this tribute record bridges generations, passing down Mullins' work like a creased family Bible. It's a hand-off, not a museum piece, urging a new wave to carry his unflinching poetry forward to the next generation.

Mullins' ragamuffin ethos, where the broken and the "least of these" take center stage, defines this project. Peterson rallies a stellar crew, echoing the original's eclectic band (Rick Elias, Beaker, Jimmy Abegg), but rooted in his Nashville circle. Band leader Ben Shive weaves piano flourishes that dance with Mullins' whimsy, while guests like Andrew Osenga, Andy Gullahorn, and Leigh Nash, among others, lend grit and glow, their voices heavy with the weight of life lived. Add the choir of Ryman regulars -- everyday pilgrims singing with holy abandon -- and you've got a band of misfits proving Mullins' truth: the Kingdom belongs to the ragged, and beauty blooms in this beautiful mess we call being human.

Peterson's A Liturgy, A Legacy, & the Songs of Rich Mullins isn't nostalgia; it's a call to gather, to sing through the homeward ache, to let these songs scatter us back into the world more alive. It lingers like incense -- brief, but potent. For anyone weary of faith alone, this one's best shared around a table or from a comfortable couch. Regrettably, I wasn't at this show in 2017, but thanks to this recording, each time I listen, I can place myself there. I can almost see the dust in the air backlit by the stained glass, hear the cough of a listener, and the creak of the wooden seats. And if I close my eyes as I take in the fading strains of the last track, "Doxology," I can almost picture Mullins: seated at his hammered dulcimer, barefoot, wearing ripped jeans and a white t-shirt, and singing along with a huge grin on his face. What a legacy indeed.