Rock and Roll Jesus

It’s impossible for me to recall my younger years without music. As a preschooler, I’d excitedly open my dad’s massive, heavy drawers filled with cassettes—The Beatles, Dire Straits, Queen, The Doors, The Cars, The Police, The Rolling Stones, just to name a few. When I was four years old I wanted to be Joan Jett. I’d sing along to all her songs. Pulling the sleeve out of the cassette tape, I’d admire her tough look, leather pants, and electric guitar. With each passing year, my love of music became more adrenalized. It was my dad’s passion for music that really fueled my fervor early on. He had speakers installed in the ceiling so we could be goofy; him singing along while “cooking” queso in the microwave and me dancing around the breakfast table.

There was something else my dad was passionate about and that was his faith. Every Sunday we went to church with my grandparents. But even though I remember singing in the pews, that practice did not cement his faith in my young eyes. It wasn’t the big congregation or the fact that he taught Sunday school. What struck me, and has stayed with me, was the quiet solitude. He’d be the first one awake and sitting at the breakfast table with his coffee, Eggo waffle, and his Bible. Every morning, without fail, he read one chapter.

But as I grew into a young adult, my own lifestyle became a lot more Rock and Roll and a lot less Jesus. I don’t know if it’s fair to say I spent a couple decades “wandering” from the Lord. “Running off crazy in the opposite direction” feels about right though. That’s not to say I ever stopped believing. In fact, I still believed and I prayed when I found myself desperate. But I was not seeking Him. I was seeking myself and it got me into a heap of trouble.

Then one day, a sweet friend invited me to come to church with her. Reluctantly, I agreed. There was loud contemporary Christian worship music, lots of flashing lights, and stadium seating. It felt like a rock concert, as if they needed to make Jesus cool. Put bluntly, it was not good music. I did not want Rock and Roll Jesus. I wasn’t feeling the Hipster Hallelujah. And Jesus wasn’t waiting for me in those large crowds because he knew me better.

Several more years passed and one day a different friend suggested I try out a small church plant called Mosaic. Again I was reluctant but I went.

 

The congregation was small; there may have been twenty five people and the band was in the center of the room. I walked in skeptical and walked out renewed. The lyrics, rhythms and instrumentation…it was like nothing I’d ever experienced. These were new hymns to me. They were soulful and intimate. They met me right where I was and moved me to my core. For the first time in thirteen years I felt the presence of The Holy Spirit in a church.

These new hymns spoke to the brokenness in me. I was in the dark for many years and for the first time as an adult I went to church and heard music that was healing. It wasn’t “You should be feeling this.” It was “You are feeling this. And Christ is in it.” It was the vessel of God’s peace. He was calling me back and speaking my language.

Today my husband and I attend a church with a phenomenal pastor and a great children’s program. We’ve made many friends and I’ve been involved in a women’s bible study for the past few years. The only downfall is that the worship music does not resonate and, honestly, I don’t think we’ll ever find a worship band that impassioned us the way the Mosaic musicians did. They set the bar pretty high.

Nowadays, I begin mornings with my Bible and coffee at the breakfast table. Occasionally, I still sing softly in the quiet spaces of the early morning. I enjoy the old hymns, in addition to the Mosaic hymns.

My interest in secular music has never wavered and I still enjoy a wide range of genres. In fact, I usually have music playing in the background whenever I can. Since childhood, it’s always been the backdrop of my daily life and I think that’s cool. But I don’t need my Jesus to be cool. Let cool be cool and Jesus be Jesus.

 

PS: I still love you, Joan Jett.