Beloved Books from Andrew Peterson's 2025 Reading List

by Andrew Peterson

It’s tempting to write a full-on essay about each of these, but I decided to stick to a quick paragraph each. If, like this first entry, there are more words, it’s probably because I read it recently, not that I liked it more. These are in no particular order, and my favorite would change depending on what I had for breakfast. Full list on The Rabbit Room Store here.

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Against the Machine, by Paul Kingsnorth

If you haven’t read Kingsnorth before, I commend to you his essay “The Cross and the Machine” as a good introduction. If it’s not your bag, you probably won’t like Against the Machine. But it was most definitely my bag, so I kept my eye out for his other books and read Real England not long after I wrote my memoir, The God of the Garden (which touches on some of the same things). I happen to love the British Isles in general and lost some of my heart to England in particular, especially the English countryside and the glimpses of Eden I still get there, so Real England resonated deeply. He covers everything from the loss of pubs and farms and apple varieties to the glut of grocery chains, basically shouting that England is in danger of losing some of the very things that make it England. Against the Machine is another wake-up call, but even more sober, urgent, and, because of Kingsnorth’s fairly recent conversion to Christianity, more spiritually rooted. I’m still thinking about it, still trying to sort out what I can practically do to live in defiance of the Machine Age (an exercise that’s frustratingly ironic in light of the screen I’m staring at while writing this). I’ve long had Luddite tendencies, and after reading this one I’m more okay with that than ever.

The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

A Christmas gift from my daughter, so I couldn’t not read it, and I’m thankful that I did. For whatever reason I’m often reticent to read classics, but I’m almost always glad when I do. It piqued a longing for the New Creation and springtime and gardening and the life we were always meant for, and I’ll never forget crying as I read the words, “I’m going to live forever and ever and ever!”

In Suspect Terrain, by John McPhee

This one was another gift, from Tom Okie, a historian of agriculture and environment at Kennesaw State University. He graciously helped me think through some aspects of The God of the Garden and made notes on the first draft. Tom came out to the Warren with his family last year for a ramble around the property, and he convinced me that rocks were as interesting as trees. Somehow I missed John McPhee all these years, but after reading this one I see his books everywhere. I kind of binged and filled my shelf with at least ten more of his wide-ranging books. In Suspect Terrain isn’t an easy read—he assumes the reader knows all the big geological words and trusts you to keep up, which I barely did—but it’s basically a literary take on how the surface of the planet became what it is (from a scientific standpoint, of course). I was in awe of God while I read it. I was also in awe of McPhee’s curiosity and his big-word vocabulary. (I also read Assembling California, another of his geology books, which ends with a montage of chilling accounts from the San Francisco earthquake of 1989.) I can report that Tom Okie was right: rocks are cool.

The Place of Tides, by James Rebanks

His third book, and the third I’ve read. His first two, The Shepherd’s Life and English Pastoral read like Wendell Berry books, if Wendell Berry was a pirate. Rebanks is a farmer in the north of England, and he’s a cracking good writer. The Place of Tides is a bit of a departure from his other books, but it’s just as well written—about a few months he spent on a tiny Norwegian island with a woman who taught him the vanishing craft of harvesting eiderdown.

The Lost Art of Dying, by L. S. Dugdale

Dugdale is a Columbia University physician who is also a Christian, so while this book was written for the general market it’s easy to see her faith come through in what she has to say about the “ars moriendi,” the medieval spiritual practice of preparing for death long before it happens. In the words of Ben Shive’s song “A Last Time for Everything,” “You have to look death in the eye / You need to see what’s hidden there / You need to see that he’s afraid to die.” This is a book that acknowledges death’s terrible weight while also lovingly suggesting that our culture’s avoidance of it isn’t helpful, but is rather a refusal to look it in the eye.

Foster, by Claire Keegan

If you haven’t read her short story Small Things Like These, then you must. It’s a big deal for a good reason. Following that, Jamie and I read Foster together early last year and liked it a lot, but it’s one of the rare examples when a movie actually makes the book better (unlike Small Things Like These, in my humble opinion). The film adaptation of Foster is called The Quiet Girl, and while I’m sure it works on its own, it was made richer by our having read the short story, and vice versa. The ending had us both in a puddle.

The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame

I’ve read this one before, but never aloud. Jamie and I were far from home this summer while we followed Mole and Rat’s adventures and the descriptions of simple, domestic home life, along with the stunning sehnsucht-infused chapter “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” had us aching in the best way.

Piranesi, by Susanna Clarke

It’s hard to talk about this one without spoiling anything, but I’ll say that if Clarke’s hope was that this story would awaken a sense of re-enchantment and wonder, then it worked. I loved the nod to C. S. Lewis, and while I spent most of the story wondering what in the world was happening, I closed it with a sigh and went to sleep with a smile. The next morning I woke before dawn for some reason, looked out the window, and saw a sliver of moon on the eastern horizon, where the sky was just beginning to lighten. With goosebumps, I muttered praise to God and only then realized that Piranesi had amplified my sense of awe and wonder—my sense that the moon meant something to me and its Maker. I don’t want to oversell it, but I highly recommend it, if only to discover what might have happened downstream from The Magician’s Nephew.

The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco

A murder mystery set in Italy in the 1300s, I had no idea I was in for a detective thriller that doubles as a lesson in theological debate and medieval heresy. I also had no idea Eco was paying homage to Sherlock Holmes.

Is a River Alive?, by Robert Macfarlane

If you’re noticing a thread, you’re not wrong. Yet another book by a modern literary British naturalist, River is Macfarlane’s plea for the rescue and protection of rivers, telling the story of four rivers around the globe that are in danger of dying. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: even in exile from Eden, we’re still called to work and keep this place that God made and loves and plans to make new. It’s a mandate for everyone, perhaps especially Christians. Taking good care of the earth is one of the best ways to love your neighbor. (See Refugia Faith, by Debra Rienstra, or Food and Faith, by Norman Wirzba, or pretty much anything by Wendell Berry if you want to engage with this idea.) Macfarlane’s Landmarks is one of my all-time favorite books, along with The Lost Words.

Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley

Somehow I’d never read this one, so ahead of Del Toro’s Netflix adaptation I read it alongside Jamie’s book club. I knew it would be good, but I didn’t realize how good. (Why am I still surprised by classics?) Del Toro’s film alters the ending in what I think is a well-meaning but unnecessary and ineffective way. Part of the power of the story is its tragedy, and Del Toro missed the mark, methinks. Also, it was impossible not to think of the horror of AI while I was reading it.

Dracula, by Bram Stoker

Speaking of horror, Jamie’s book club plowed ahead in October with Dracula, yet another classic that proved its worth. It was so scary! And the Christian themes were much richer and more prevalent than I realized they would be. I want to hang out with Van Helsing.

East of Eden, by John Steinbeck

Wow, wow, wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so captivated by a book. This one was a gift from Jess Ray (thanks for the first edition, Jess!). It took me a few years to get to, but once I did I could hardly stop reading. It’s weird how I kept hearing people talk about this book in 2025, and it was a good reminder of the staying power of good literature, how a book’s popularity ebbs and flows as it resonates with different generations and cultures over time. For whatever reason, Steinbeck is having a revival, it seems. I’ve seldom cared so much about a cast of characters, or felt so repulsed by a villain. There’s so much more I could say, but if you haven’t read it yet, you definitely should before you watch the series that’s coming out early this year. I should also encourage you to read The Grapes of Wrath, which is another all-time favorite.

Why Everything that Doesn’t Matter, Matters So Much, by Charlie Peacock and Andi Ashworth

Living in Nashville as an artist for the past 28 years gives one an appreciation for people like Charlie Peacock and his wife Andi Ashworth. They’ve poured out their hearts, and indeed their lives, for this community for decades, through the Art House, through albums, meals, friendships, and countless acts of service. This book, framed as a series of letters to the reader, gives us a glimpse into their lives together as they’ve struggled to serve the Kingdom by loving, teaching, and equipping artists. It’s vulnerable and wise, and I highly recommend it.

Those were the highlights for me. I usually have to hear about a book three or four times before I’ll read it, so I’m offering these up in case you’re like me and they push you over the threshold to give them a try. There are so many more I’d love to recommend (I keep thinking of them as I wrap this up!), but I’m out of steam. Here’s to a healthy 2026 that’s full of good stories, both lived and read.

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Andrew Peterson is a singer-songwriter, author, and founder of The Rabbit Room. Andrew has released more than ten records over the past twenty years, earning him a reputation for songs that connect with his listeners in ways equally powerful, poetic, and intimate.

As an author, Andrew’s books include the four volumes of the award-winning Wingfeather Saga, which have sold more than a million copies, along with his creative memoirs, Adorning the Dark, and The God of the Garden. He’s also an executive producer of the Wingfeather Saga Animated Series, which is currently in production on its third season with Angel Studios.