Guilt by Association – or – Liberal Use of the Word ‘Independent’ Probably Means You’re a Liberal

An article I read recently about how young evangelicals are moving away from the religious right made me think. Certainly, I have abandoned my conservative evangelical roots to a large degree in recent years.  For the last 10 years I’ve staunchly stood by the claim that I am a true independent.  But recently I’ve stepped back and evaluated my life and it seems all the evidence suggests that I am, in fact, a liberal.  What’s sadder is that I can’t help it.  I just like the wrong people and the wrong things.

For instance:

I like the media.  I like newspapers and magazines.  The first thing I do in the morning is log on to multiple news sites and willingly subject myself to all of the liberally tainted contents therein.

Similarly, I like journalists and journalism.  Two of my best friends are journalists.  And not for Fox News.  In fact, I like journalism so much that I minored in the subject in college.  Not only that, but I was the editor-in-chief of the student newspaper.  And I enjoyed it!  

I like NPR.  I appreciate the in-depth news coverage.  I even made a donation once.  I like ‘On Point with Tom Ashbrook’, ‘Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me’ and ‘This American Life.’  All of it left-leaning and publicly funded!  For shame.

I like 3o Rock. I think the show is brilliant.  I laugh at Alec Baldwin’s satirical portrayal of a conservative.

Not liberal enough for you?  How about this?

I like The Daily Show. I think Jon Stewart is funny.  And not in a “he’s a great comedian, but he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about” kind of way.  I actually think he makes a lot of good points!

I like Boston.  Moving up to ‘Taxachussetts’ is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.  I have a wife, a job, a ton of friends with whom I hang out and play sports and party liberally. Even if I left Boston, it wouldn’t help because…

I like The Ocean.  There’s really no chance of me getting away from living in a blue state (with the possible exceptions of Savannah, GA or SC or FL if they swing back the other way).

Think all this is bad?  It gets worse.

I like theater.  On certain evenings, I have a strange penchant for going out and watching flamboyant liberals prance around on stage.  I even studied playwriting at Boston University.  So not only do I like watching plays, but I like writing them too.  And when they are produced, I just give more flamboyant liberals more reason to prance around in front of impressionable crowds.

I like punk rock.  I know in its original form it espoused anarchy (which takes the conservative notion of ‘small government’ to its ultimate extreme) but over the years punk has repeatedly railed against social conservatism, conservative politics and the church.  Bad Religion is my favorite band.  They are atheists, for crying out loud!  Do you know what it’s like to grow up a Christian and have Bad Religion be your favorite band?  Talk about an identity crisis.

But wait, there’s more.

I like academics and academia.  I loved college – the classes, the new experiences, the ivory towers of liberalism.  In fact, I even taught in the left-leaning halls of the university system for several years as an adjunct professor of English.  Talk about a damning resume.

I like Barack Obama.  I voted for that ‘extreme liberal socialist’.  (For the record, I liked McCain too.  I thought he could’ve been a great president and I wish the Republicans had nominated him back in 2000 when he ran against Bush in the primaries. But of course he was considered too liberal in a lot of ways.). But, yeah, I voted for Obama. Obama! I liked the way he conducted his campaign, but worse yet, I liked his ideas.  I actually felt like if they were put into practice, America would improve! I don’t know why I didn’t feel frightened of terrorists or outraged by immigrants. I don’t know why I didn’t feel the current flushing us down the toilet of moral decay.  The liberal media probably blinded me to it.

I like Wikipedia, which I’ve heard is secretly run by liberals.  But I think it’s probably the greatest website ever invented.  I’m blind to the way it’s subtly brainwashing me.

I like Kurt Vonnegut – without reservation.  He is probably my favorite author.


As I scan through my life – the ins and outs, the daily rituals – I’m hard-pressed to find anything in my life that I enjoy that could be considered properly conservative.  I like the Economist, which is supposedly right-wing but what’s right-wing in the UK is a lot different than what’s right-wing here in the states.  I like Jesus, who I grew up believing was a conservative, but he seems more liberal to me all the time – telling us to give all our stuff to the poor and freely extending his grace to people who haven’t even worked to earn it.  It’s like some kind of forgiveness welfare program.

About the only thing I can say I definitely like that I know a lot conservatives also like is fishing.  Consider it my way of reaching across the aisle.

It’s been oddly refreshing to let go of all the pretense and just flat out admit that I’m a liberal.  It’s something people have probably suspected about me for a while, but I’ve never admitted it to myself.  What’s more refreshing is the realization that it’s really not my fault.  Maybe it’s some sort of genetic deffect or a yet-to-be classified disorder.  But I just have an innate tendency toward the wrong stuff and the wrong people. So until they find a way to shut down the ‘liberal gene’ I guess I just have to accept who I am and try to make the best of each day.


The First Time God Failed Me – or – The Other Posts Are Funnier, I Swear

It was the first day of my senior year of high school.  I remember it had been a really crappy day.  The excitement of being an upperclassman had worn off during junior year and now it just seemed like I had to ride out another year before I could escape to college.

The day was over and I walked out to the student parking lot with my friends Jon, Bob and Mark.  It was a beautiful, sunny early September day and I was thankful to have the first day of what promised to be an awful senior year over with.  The four of us came down the hill toward our cars and Andy came cruising past in his old, gray Jeep Cherokee.  Hanging on to the back door through the open window was Ryan being pulled along on his skateboard.

I don’t know what drove me to chastise Ryan for his recklessness as if I were an adult, but I remember I called out sarcastically, “Yeah, real cool Ryan!”

About two seconds later he went down.  Hard.

At first it was a collective “OOOH” that typically follows a hard hit in any given sport.  But he rolled once and came up on his knees, shaking violently.  His shirt was ripped and his back was all scratched up from the asphalt.  He was shaking really hard and a second later a river of blood rushed from his forehead and down his face.  That’s when we knew it was serious.

Next thing I remember we were back up the hill.  For some reason after school the doors were locked from the inside so students could go out but couldn’t get back in.  So the four of us were there banging on the locked door and hollering.  There was this really young, cute teacher – I can’t remember her name now, but we all had crushes on her.  She saw us banging and she gave us a look like, ‘You know your not supposed to get back in after you leave school.’  But as she got closer I guess she got the sense that we were serious and she opened the door.

We burst through and ran right past her toward the main office.  I think Mark asked one of the secretaries if the nurse was still in.  She said yes and everyone took off running toward her office.  I was the only one who heard the secretary say, ‘But she’s in a meeting in Ms. Reidmiller’s room.’  So I did an exaggerated about face and took off in the opposite direction. No one followed me.

There were a bunch of teachers in this meeting and when I burst in the door they all looked at me like they were getting ready to yell at me for interrupting.  I couldn’t figure out what to say. Or which one of them to say it to.  I didn’t know how to convey the urgency of the situation.  I tried to stay calm and just explain everything and I remember it took them a while really grasp that Ryan needed help right away.

I rushed back to the parking lot.  Ms. Castiglia was hustling down the hall behind me and I remember for some reason stopping and trying to hold the door for her.  ‘Just go, Jon,’ she said and I took off back down the hill as if there was something else I could do.  By this time a crowd had gathered and Ryan had gone into convulsions.  His mouth was full of blood and some of his teeth had been knocked out in the fall. I remember one of the teachers kneeling beside him, holding his head and then it’s all a blur until the ambulance was ready to leave.

The nerdy science teacher was carrying a back pack toward the ambulance and I remember thinking, ‘Hey, that looks like my backpack.’  Turned out it was my backpack.  I must have ditched it when I started my run toward the building and I hadn’t even thought of it since.  I remember awkwardly breaking past the sort of police line that had been set up and having to ask the teacher for my bag back.

My anatomy teacher, Mr. Lusto, was asking me what had happened and I remember one of the EMTs saying to him, ‘We just have to hope for the best,’ and thinking that was an odd thing to say.  It sounded strangely bleak considering this was just a skateboarding accident.


That night I was at CVS stocking up on school supplies and I ran into my friend Paul’s father.  He asked me about Ryan and the accident and I told him how I was there and was the one of the people who had gone to get help.  “Wow, Jon,” he said.  “You might have saved his life.  You’re a hero.”  I said I didn’t know about that and I was sure it wasn’t that serious.

I honestly never expected Ryan to die.  Even the next morning at school I was poised for another normal, boring, crappy day.  I was even smiling and joking in the hall when Perry came up and told me the doctors had given him 24 hours.  ’24 hours til what?’ I asked, genuinely thinking he might mean he’d be out of the hospital in 24 hours.

The day was surreal.  Through most of it I still believed he wouldn’t die.  The young, cute teacher stopped me in the hall and apologized for not opening the door sooner.  For a brief, strange moment I was comforting her, telling her it was alright and there’s no way she could have known.  Later that afternoon we found out he had died. The impact of the fall caused swelling in his head that couldn’t be stopped.  It ended up basically cutting off the circulation to his brain and that was the end of it.

We gathered at my friend Garrett’s house.  His parents were great.  They just let like twenty kids hang out in their backyard and they didn’t bother us except to bring us hot dogs and sodas.  Ryan was part of the grungier sect of high school kids.  I was on the fringes of his group of friends, being a member of another punk band.  But because I was there at the accident they made sure to include me.  Lots of kids were smoking cigarettes and we went from crying to laughing over and over again as the evening wore on.  Some guys were playing guitars and some were kicking a soccer ball around and things were starting to seem like they were gonna be okay.

Then somehow my mother appeared.  I had left her a message telling her I’d be at Garrett’s but as far as I knew she had no idea where Garrett lived.  She found out some way or another and I think when she saw all of us kids there she just sort of lost it.  She came up to me with tears running down her face, her make-up all messed up, and hugged me and said, ‘I’m sorry about your friend’.  I had done my best to hide my more motley friends from her and I was definitely aware of all the cigarette smoking going on.  But in that moment my mom didn’t care about that at all and for that I’ve always been appreciative.  We talked a little and I told her I’d be alright and she eventually left and I stayed and we hung out long into the night.

It was Friday morning when I had my first panic attack.  They announced in homeroom that Ryan had passed away and that anyone who felt like it could gather in the auditorium with a few teachers and a counselor.  So we were down there hanging out and I hadn’t really cried yet.  Honestly, I hadn’t been that close to Ryan.  It was my proximity to the accident and my role in alerting the authorities that caused all these kids to reach out to me.  (Before this experience we had all just been acquaintances.  They became some of my best friends.)  Anyway, so it wasn’t when I thought about Ryan being gone that I cried.  It wasn’t when I remembered him writhing on the blacktop.  It wasn’t the accident or the blood or the death itself that made me lose it.  It was when I thought of pounding on that door.  It was the moment when I couldn’t get in the building, when I was waiting for that teacher to open the door.  When I thought of that moment I just started heaving and wailing – hyperventilating, etc.  It wasn’t a sorrow or a mourning cry.  It was a cry of desperation and panic.  So I was sitting in an auditorium chair in the front row when the first one of these hit me.  It was surprising and I couldn’t control it and Pete Krulikowsky, who I barely even knew at the time, came and sat next to me and just put his arm around me until I calmed down.

Those flashbacks lasted a few months.  For a while I wondered if I’d ever get over them.  I remember coming home from Garrett’s on Saturday night and trying to explain the phenomenon to my parents, who had already gone to bed, telling them it was okay and I just wanted to let them know about it in case it happened unexpectedly while they were around.

The funeral was Saturday and it was packed.  The line was out the door.  I had gone through and paid my respects and shook Ryan’s parents’ hands, just saying that I was a friend of Ryan’s.  When I came outside I sat down on the grass and started bawling.  This girl Jen Berkowitz, a blond cheerleader who had known Ryan since Kindergarten but probably hadn’t hung out with him in years, another unlikely savior, knelt down in front of me.

“I wanted to tell them I was sorry,” I cried to Jen.  “I wanted to tell them I did everything I could.  I tried to get help.  I ran as fast as I could.  I tried to save him.  I just wanted to tell them I was sorry.”  She just knelt there in front of me for a while with her hands on my shoulders.  I looked up at her with tears in my eyes.  “Do you want to go back in?” she asked me.  I said no.  Then she asked, “Are you looking at my cleavage?”  What?  No!  “You can see right down my dress, can’t you?” she said with mock-outrage.  I could see right down her dress, actually.  I started to laugh.  She had noticed her exposure before I did and she went on to scold me even though she didn’t move or make any attempt to hide her cleavage from me.  She just went on, “I can’t believe you’re looking at my boobs right now!”  I guess she didn’t really know what to say so she used the one thing she had that she knew could cheer a guy up.  We both were cracking up and eventually we stood up and left.

Finally, it was Sunday and I headed off to church with my family.  My parents’ friends, my pastor and my youth leader had all heard the news.  I looked forward to being comforted by the people in the congregation I had known since I was a little kid.  I craved the prayer the pastor would surely pray from the pulpit on my behalf.  I knew I’d find comfort in the church with my fellow believers.

So I shared the story during prayer request time in our teen Sunday school.  People came up to me and said, “Sorry to hear about your friend.  Was he Christian?”  Thanks.  No.  I don’t think so.  At this, they would frown or grimace.  “Have you gotten any chances to witness to anyone because of it?” they asked me.  No.  Sorry.  I think we’re just still trying to just deal with it, you know?

“And we pray for Jon, who’s friend passed away this week,” the pastor prayed from the pulpit. “We pray that this would remind us all of how our time on this earth is limited.  And how it can be taken away at any moment.  And we pray that Jon would find the opportunity to share the Gospel with the kids in his school through this experience.”  This was not the prayer I had anticipated.  I don’t know what I was hoping for but I hadn’t considered any of this as an ‘opportunity to evangelize’.  And the ‘life lesson’ I had heard so many times felt even further removed, even more empty and generic, when it was in reference to something so close to me.

Nobody seemed to understand that I had just watched someone die in front of my face.  No one seemed to understand that I had shouted what might very well have been the last words he ever heard.  No one seemed to understand that I had seen his teeth lying on the ground next to him while he shook and foamed at the mouth.  No one seemed to understand that I was having panic attacks every time I was reminded of my inability to get through that door and get help.

I didn’t go back to church that night for evening service.  I couldn’t take it.   I went back to Garrett’s house and just sat in the backyard.   I didn’t find comfort in the people or the prayers.  I found it in Pete Krulikowsy’s arm around my shoulders.  And in Jen Berkowitz’s cleavage.   I found more comfort in my grungy, cigarette-smoking friends with their guitars and crude jokes than in the ‘love and support’ of people I’d grown up with in the church for 17 years.

I don’t remember praying at all during that time, though I’m sure I must have tried.  Maybe I didn’t reach out to God but I felt like this was one time he could’ve taken the intiative and reached out to me.  It was radio silence from heaven during that time.  If we’re supposed to have a ‘personal relationship’ with God, if Jesus is supposed to be our friend… well, what kind of friend deserts you in a time like that?    My church failed me.  My faith failed me.  God failed me.  And deep down, I still hold it against him to this day.

Published in: on May 19, 2009 at 5:37 pm  Comments (5)  
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Retraction – or – Do you worship like a Sex Pistol or a Megadeth?

If you know me at all you probably know that on numerous occasions I have vehemently denounced what might be termed ‘comentemporary praise and worship’ music.

The funny thing is that I used to religiously attend an all-singing/prayer Sunday evening service known as ‘catacombs’ when I was a student at Gordon College.  This service was basically an hour straight of these ‘contemporary praise and worship’ choruses.  I went every Sunday night for three years.  Three years.  Then one Sunday I snapped.  It just hit me that every single song was terrible.  They were simplistic, sappy, self-centered blather.  So I walked out and I never went back.

I think part of what turned me off to praise music was the fact that I could actually sing it well and play it on the guitar.  I’m not a great singer or a great guitar player.  Yet I’d find myself harmonizing and belting out the notes with little effort.  Once, a girl even complimented me on my voice after the service.  I basically thought, ‘If I can sing this stuff, it must be terrible’.

Another issue was the lyrics.  They were like magnet poetry.  The words were all just given to you in a box and all you had to do was rearrange them to make a new song.  Lots of times they didn’t even rhyme.  I chafed at the perpetual apology of ‘I’m Coming Back to the Heart of Worship’ who’s second line repented ‘I’m sorry, Lord, for the thing I’ve made it.’  First of all, any writing teacher will tell you never to use the word ‘thing’ in an essay, let alone a piece of poetry.  Second, this vagueness leaves the audience to assign their own sins to the ‘thing’ and have to come up with some new hypocrisy to swap in week after week.

Another lyrical issue is the fact that sometimes it is hard to tell whether the songs are about God or some romantic liaison.   I remember standing next to my friend Grant in church one Sunday morning and the lyrics, “Have your way inside of me” were projected on the screen.  I remember being horribly ashamed at the sexual connotation I assigned to the line… until Grant leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Dude, that line is really sketchy.’

And so I wrote off praise music altogether.  Until this past Sunday.

I was at Dane St. Church and there was this adorable little emo-praise band leading worship – a talented bunch who rocked the house in a way that made me uncomfortable on behalf of the more elderly and infirm among us.

“You might not know a lot of these songs,” the lead singer said. ‘No kidding,’ I thought. “But they’re really easy to learn,” he went on.  And they were.  I found that I could easily sing all the notes and even anticipate where the melody was going, even on the first run-through.  By the third chorus I knew it as well as ‘This Little Light of Mine’.

That’s when the virtue of praise music finally hit me.

For years, I have been an avid punk rock fan.  Yet metal has never appealed to me.  Indeed, both metal and punk tout counter-culturalism and rebellion, but fandom in these genres is mutually exclusive.  You just can’t like metal and punk.

Now I’ve thought this over and even wrote a paper about it for a college course.  The appeal of punk is that there is no real distinction between audience and performer.  At most underground punk shows, the band plays on a very short stage or actually on the floor, among the crowd. The songs are incredibly simple.

So simple in fact that metalists often sneer at punk-rockers.  Metal is meant to be showy and flashy, as well as loud and abrasive.  Metal bands ask not only to be identified with, but to be worshipped for their amazing chops, licks and time signatures.  You might commonly hear the phrase ‘gods of metal’.  You would never hear about a ‘god of punk’.

Now I attend an Episcopal Church where we sing wildly difficult tunes in odd time signatures; notes just all over the bars. And I love it.  I love the technical challenge of it.  I love that the lyrics are poetry I couldn’t even hope to aspire to writing.  I love that the notes push me to the top of my limited register.  And the organ postludes?  Holy Mackeral!  They actually sound like metal sometimes with these horrific minor chords and sixteenth-notes flying all over the place.  And talk about loud. That pipe organ wails.

And praise music is just the opposite of all this.  It’s simple both to play and sing.  It’s easily accessible to the masses.  Even the most vocally challenged among us can sing most praise songs reasonably well.  The lyrics don’t contain any talk of ‘bulwarks’ or ‘ebenezers’, opting instead for simple words of hope and praise that can be shared by everyone in the crowd.

I realized on Sunday that all these years I’ve been contradicting myself.  Why is it that I love the Metal of worship music, while I love the Punk of rock ‘n roll?

It’s because I am a snob.  Admittedly, when I hear the sorry crooning of a tone-deaf man or woman I think like the disciples did, “Who sinned, this man or his parents?”  Now I’m not a great singer, but not being able to sing would be one of the worst punishments I can imagine.  Singing is probably the only thing I enjoy and still do well during Sunday worship services.  So I cling to it.  I have an attitude about it – a highfalutin, holier than thou attitude.

So I’m sorry.  I can’t say I’ll become a fan of ‘contemporary praise and worship’ based on this revelation.  But I apologize for my negative attitude and I will try to respect it from now on as a way for people to come together for a common cause, with a common attitude and a common ability to achieve a common good.

Just… work on the lyrics. Deal?

The List – or – God, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

For the Lenten season of 2008, I decided that instead of giving something up, I would add something to my day: Bible reading.  This was something I knew I was supposed to do as a committed Christian, but had been really bad about throughout my life.  I never had a daily “devotional” with any regularity.  I would constantly lie about how often I read the Bible, sort of like I lie about how many times I usually exercise during a given week.

Anyway, I actually stuck with it throughout Lent and have stuck with it until the present day.  Honest.

The problem?  Well, the problem is that rather than read the Bible in happy, inspirational chunks, as most devotional guides encourage us to do, I decided to read the Bible as if it were actually like, well, a book.  And that meant slogging through it from page one.  Keep in mind that I only read a couple chapters per day so I’m still in 2 Chronicles.

Far from inspiration and a greater understanding of God, I have found my experience with the Bible thus far to be profoundly disturbing.

Now, we tend to skip around and not talk about the ugly bits of the Bible, but there is some really messed up stuff in there.  I usually feel bad bringing it up to people because nobody can really explain or justify it and I hate putting people on the spot like that.  Most people say that ultimately we just can’t understand God’s master plan.  They say it’s one of those things that we’ll understand when we get to heaven.

Well, I hope so, because I started a list.  I’m writing it right on one of those maps of Palestine and the Sinai peninsula that are at the end of some Bibles, actually.  The list is called, “Verses to ask God about when I get to heaven.”

Just this morning I came across this gem:  The army of Judah also captured ten thousand men alive, took them to the top of a cliff and threw them down so that all were dashed to pieces (2 Chronicles 25:12). Now I’m not a pacifist or someone who is disturbed more easily by violence than the average person.  I can understand that if two countries are at war, people are going to get killed.  But this is a clear example of sick, mindless slaughter, ostensibly under the blessing, if not the direction, of our God.  Could you imagine the outrage if the U.S. did something like this to insurgents in Iraq?  How is that we have a moral code that is greater than that of God’s chosen people when it comes to warfare?

Way to start the day, right?  I might as well be reading the Iliad every day before work.

Anyway, if you think that’s sick, check this out.  This is the passage that first inspired me to create this list. “Because of the suffering that your enemy will inflict on you during the siege, you will eat the fruit of the womb, the flesh of the sons and daughters the LORD your God has given you. 54 Even the most gentle and sensitive man among you will have no compassion on his own brother or the wife he loves or his surviving children, 55 and he will not give to one of them any of the flesh of his children that he is eating” (Deuteronomy 28:53). Seriously. What the hell?

It’s funny because as I’m writing this, only my second post, I’m wondering whether to include swear words or not in this supposedly ‘Christian’ blog.  Then I looked back at the passage with all the people eating their kids and I thought, hmm, swearing probably isn’t that big of a deal.

Okay here’s another one that is completely outrageous.  In Numbers 31, Israel really wallops the Midianites.  They kill all the men and capture the women and children.  Pretty extreme.  But wait, here comes Moses himself in verse 15, and he’s pissed.  “Have you allowed all the women to live?” he asked them. 16 “They were the ones who followed Balaam’s advice and were the means of turning the Israelites away from the LORD in what happened at Peor, so that a plague struck the LORD’s people. 17 Now kill all the boys. And kill every woman who has slept with a man, 18 but save for yourselves every girl who has never slept with a man.”

Of the slew of genocides carried out by the Israelites, this one takes the cake.  Whatever shred of human decency this army was clinging to by sparing the women and children is soon stamped out by the man closest of all to the Lord.  ‘No, actually, don’t spare the women and children.  Kill them all.  Oh, except for the young girls.  Them you can keep as sex slaves.  Yup.  Good work boys. Don’t forget to introduce your new virgin sex slaves to your wives when you get home.’

Well, I’d like to keep this post under 1000 words.  So if you want some more highlights, check out Joshua 7-8, Judges 20-21 (which begins with someone chopping up a dead concubine and mailing her pieces – and here i thought the mob came up with that move – and gets more and more baffling as it goes on), and 1 Kings 13:16-34.

Well, this is the point where a Donald Miller type would turn this all around to show how all this madness has some important, positive implication for our lives.  But I got nothing.  In these disturbing passages, God never expressly gives the order to carry out these grisly acts, but he is complicit in them at the very least.

So I’m thinking about being buried with this list in my jacket pocket.  And just in case that doesn’t work, I’ll commit the passages to memory.  And when I get to heaven I plan to demand a little face time with God, whip out this list and say, ‘God, you’ve got some serious ‘splaining to do.’

You might say that I’m not right to question God.  But I think you’re just making excuses. He gave me a sense of morality, a conscience which this stuff offends at the most basic level.  We have to be appalled at these passages.  No more dismissing them as too complicated.  No more saying they’re beyond our comprehension.  If anything like this happens today, there is a worldwide uproar. I’m using the rational mind and conscience that God gave to me and, like David in the Psalms, I’m gonna just be honest and say, ‘God… seriously… what gives?’

This I Believe – or – Does the Spirit Dwell in my Heart or my Spine?

My this I believe essay didn’t make it onto NPR so I’m sharing it here…

I believe music is proof that God exists.

As an adolescent evangelical, I once attended a massive Christian music festival out in Pennsylvania. In a moment while 70,000 of us were holding hands and singing worship songs, I suddenly got this tingling sensation up and down my spine. This, I thought, must be the Holy Spirit moving.

But just a few weeks later, riding in a friend’s car, Billy Joel came on the radio singing “Piano Man.” It was loud and I was listening intently when… uh-oh… God? I was getting that exact same tingle! This evoked a minor faith crisis.

Perhaps you’ve had the same sensation. It feels like someone has rigged electrical wiring throughout your vertebrae. And when Billy Joel belts, “It’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man’s clothes,” it’s like he flips a switch that sends a current down the wire that alternately makes you want to weep or hurl with a profound, simultaneous sense of crippling grief and rapturous joy.

I feel it during “Amazing Grace”, in the last verse when the organist instinctively slows down and the congregation booms, “When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun.”

I also feel it during Frank Sinatra’s “My Way,” a song my pastor commonly denounced in his Sunday sermons as typical, wayward attitude of popular culture (we should be doing things God’s way, not our way). Sorry, Pastor Dave, but it’s still a great song.

I feel it during the Allman Brothers’ final choruses, when the vocals rest for a beat while the rhythm section pounds on, “like I been… TIED to the whipping post.”

I felt it when we sang “Great is Thy Faithfulness” in the campus chapel on September 11th.

The national anthem gets an honorable mention because I know people feel it in “O’er the land of the freeeee.” I don’t feel it here, maybe because I am trying to force it or maybe because I am always distracted with worry over whether the soloist will actually hit that high note.

Of course, not only great hymns and classic tunes hold this power. The oft-forgotten 90’s grunge band The Toadies have a song called “Tyler” that gets me every time with its creepy crescendo. And local Boston group, Big D’s “Take Another Look,” has this quiet, brooding build-up that culminates in a drop-off of everything but the horns, then a distorted pick-slide that brings the rhythm section back in full-force as the horns all hit this high note and the singer screams. It’s probably one of the most cathartic musical moments ever composed.

You might hear it, create it, or participate in it by singing along, but we all have the potential to create this physiological manifestation of emotion through the miracle of music – those seven notes and their slight variations that have been arranged into countless creations over thousands of years. There is no rational explanation for the fact of music, and certainly none for the way it makes us feel. And so I believe it is a gift from God, a sort of general revelation, accessible to all his people, to remind us of the beauty and sorrow of life and to make it all a little more bearable.