Music for living

I’ll be straightforward here. I’ve always had a fairly strong dislike for contemporary “Christian” music. The kind that gets overplayed and over-hyped in some attempt to rival what many Christians would call “secular” radio. Don’t get me wrong. I believe that Christian music has its place; but I find that far too often these artists write one‑dimensional songs that focus solely on things like God’s love or heaven or how we should all go to church. While these things are good to think about, the songs tend to ignore the struggles of humanity, skimming over our brokenness and pains, and look only to the promised happy‑ending. Music that only deals with the positive aspects of Christianity tends to deceive, bringing only half of the spectrum of life into focus, leaving many honest listeners feeling cheated or maybe even concerned when they can't always sing along to such upbeat and positive, but too often cheap and empty music.

When I began to consider my dislike for this type of music, I realized that I was lacking a reason for liking the music that I do. I've always enjoyed listening to music, playing along to songs, or even occasionally attempting to write my own, but I never took the time to hammer out a true reason behind my passion for music. In all fairness, I don't know if it’s actually possible to come to a concrete conclusion; but an article I once read in Comment Magazine gave me a place to begin.

The article, written by Jeremy Clive Huggins, was called “New Pop.” I searched desperately for a link to the article online with no success, so you’ll have to settle for my summary of some of the ideas. Mid‑way through his article Huggins writes,

"All the people I love, I trust, I want to be around, all of them, with varying volume, answer "yes" to the following basic question: "Will you be there for me?" I've come to believe it's the question that houses all my other questions, fears, and longings. The answers are variations on: "Rest, Jeremy, I'm here, and you have my time." This is a generosity, a gift, a grace: unhurried time. Behind all else, one of the main reasons I enjoy the music I enjoy is that it offers unhurried time."

When I read that, I couldn't help but nod my head in approval, as this statement dealt with many questions I have about the value of music. Music that I enjoy happens to be music that deals with hurt and frustration as well as joys and achievements. It is music that is written with raw emotion, in a chronicle format where experiences are expressed as they happen, both good and bad, leaving the listener with a sense that the artist is human just like them, and it is just a matter of taking some (unhurried) time to listen and engage.

Now, I enjoy a reasonable variety of bands, some Christian and some not, but some of my favorite music comes from Damien Rice. I love music like his because it deals with the heights and hurts of being human, with relating to others, and it does so in a brutally honest way. In the song ‘Amie’, he begs, "Amie, come sit on my wall and read me the story of 'O'," a story that deals with the circular nature of relationships, that reflects on how we can go from the top of the world to the bottom, and how we can be shattered only to be once again restored. Granted, Rice's music never reaches the necessary conclusion of humanity's need for God's grace and companionship, but I find in his music a passion and vibrant experience that I know is real. Through his music, Damien Rice offers me unhurried time, time where I can reflect on, as theologians might say, the "already‑not yet" nature of reality: the pain, but also the joys, that you can find in the company of others. What an incredibly powerful function of music!

John Steinbeck, in his essay titled “In Awe of Words”, wrote, "We are lonesome animals. We spend all of our life trying to be less lonesome. One of our ancient methods is to tell a story begging the listener to say—and to feel—‘Yes, that is the way it is, or at least that is the way I feel it. You're not as alone as you thought.’"  And this is what quality music does for us. It tells stories; it reaches out to us and affirms our feelings and experiences, reassuring us that we are not alone. It does not leave us malnourished as some music does, but rather encourages us to examine and cope with our real fears, doubts, and daily experiences.

In addition to aiding us in the coping and struggling and embracing of brokenness, the type of music I enjoy also lends me a better view of God's plans for the restoration of all creation. In an article of his, Syd Hielema, chaplain at Redeemer, wrote that Paul's warning to "Think about such things (whatever is true, lovely, admirable, etc) should never be reduced to 'think only about such things'." Hielema writes this as a warning, because when we reduce our experiences to solely those things, we drastically lessen the impact of the joy and peace we receive from God, leaving the promises of Christianity as a mere flicker of light. Only when we contrast the light of God's promises with the darkness of our everyday experiences do we really begin to see just how much God has given us. A decent look at the book of Psalms illustrates the truth of this.

Now, I don't intend to downplay or degrade all of Christian radio through this article, because as Huggins writes, "I believe that many Christian artists do their work in good faith and to the glory of God." But, it does happen far too often that in listening to Christian radio "I'm left feeling malnourished, small, not respected as a complex, glorious ruin (to use Schaeffer's term). In short, I feel hurried. I feel hurried lyrically; I feel hurried instrumentally; I feel hurried existentially." I personally find much more honesty in music that "rings true to the human condition as I understand it, music that doesn't spoil a mystery, music that, if it hurries me at all, hurries me to dance, to plea, to cry, to sing..." When you take the time to listen to this type of music, you will find that it can take you places you have never been, and can lead you through the dark places you are currently traversing, celebrating with you when you reach the other side.

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