I've learned how to laugh and I've learned how to pray
It’s no secret that I despair over the state of “Christian music” these days. Christian radio is programming for the Q-Anon soccer moms and the rest of us just have to muddle through. The good news is that I’m discovering a lot of bands I missed out on fifteen years ago.
But, as Elijah discovered, there’s always a remnant.
In the dark ages, there was no middle school. We had junior high, seventh through ninth grades. I still think it’s more sane than the current system (and my alma-mater school district agrees, as it’s never converted to middle school). So, entering seventh grade, I had all the usual changes:
Today, we could talk about a global pandemic or racism or why a virus doesn’t care how you vote or why there’s a shortage of cold brew tea(!), but instead, let’s talk about the most pressing issue of the day.
Worship music.
More specifically, bad worship music.
Some of you think that’s redundant. Why do you think so? Because there’s a lot of it. Why do you suppose that is? To examine that, let’s re-visit a movie from the last year of the 80’s. The movie is set in the most unlikely of places, a poetry classroom at an all-boy’s school.
A thirty-three year old song popped up on my playlist yesterday. In the range of music I listen to, that’s about middle-aged. (I go as far back as Sinatra, who actually came up as I was writing this, and as far forward as last week.) This song’s pretty special, though, so I thought it was worth talking about.