A few weeks ago, I was ecstatic to see a band I had just discovered play live: Skillet.
I wasn't even remotely prepared for the diverse experience I was about to have.
I drove for over five hours southwest to Columbus, Ohio, for Winter Jam 2012. My friend Garrett accompanied me, and he was even more psyched to see Skillet than I was.
We arrived in downtown Columbus around 3 p.m., luckily snagging a spot near the front of the entrance, as it was a first-come-first-serve event, and there we shivered in the wintry air until the doors opened at 4:45 p.m.
Not anytime during that hour and 45 minutes of waiting did Garrett or I get a sense of religiousness from the crowd. I only detected a sea of Skillet fans ready to rock their wild minds out.
Garrett and I chatted with a local Columbus family, who attended Winter Jam annually and kindly illustrated the event for us. The parents described the concert as something great to take the kids to. I should've been wondering why it was great for children to see a band like Skillet, who I merely recognized as a hardcore rock band.
Then the Winter Jam host started speaking. He kept saying words like "Jesus" and "God," and "pray" and "worship." All I could muster was a look of bafflement directed in Garrett's direction. I wasn't disgusted or angry, it was more of a mixture of confusion and shock.
The "One Verse Pre-Jam Party" opening of the show was the start of the bizarreness. We As Human lit things off, followed by For God & Country and Dara Maclean. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to feel spiritually at peace or what. All I saw were a couple unique bands and a Taylor Swift rip-off.
And in between some of the acts, illusionist Brock Gill performed cheesy magic tricks like escaping from chains while trapped underwater in a locked chest. And after his "surprising" escape, Gill preached about his relationship to Jesus and how that had saved his life. While it probably kept the kids in the crowd occupied, I couldn't help but find his speech awkward. I didn't find the magic show necessary to articulate a point. And doesn't Christianity forbid the use of magic? Or does that only pertain to reading Harry Potter?
But I was entertained. The music became more likeable with artists like Building 429, Peter Furler, NewSong, and Sanctus Real. They all had admirable musical talent, and I plan to check out more of their material on my own time.
But the makeshift sermons kept interfering with the rhythm of the concert. Building 429 lead vocalist Jason Roy told the tear-jerking story of his baby surviving a premature birth. NewSong frontman Russ Lee told the crowd that his wife survived cancer. These people elaborated the holy connection between God and these miracles, and I understood and respected that – it was actually a pleasant surprise for me.
What I did NOT respect was the specific way the speakers advertised to persuade the crowd to donate money for homeless children. I fully appreciated that they spoke their hearts out to get donations, but the formulas used to do so didn't shriek religious in my ear.
Did you know that if you donate a certain amount of money to financially aid homeless children that you could win NewSong's latest album? Oh, and that the tour is giving away six free iPad 2s? And a street-legal racecar?
These prizes seem like something a radio station would want to give away, not a church. I felt these people definitely went the wrong way about collecting charity.
"I hate how they keep commercializing everything," Garrett commented. "I wonder if anybody else wants [the host] to shut up."
I wondered this too, "Is this how Christians spread the word of Godnowadays?" I thought to myself. For a wider stretch of opinion, I talked to a man named Paul sitting in front of me.
"I'm not afraid to admit when [Christians] sometimes sound [ridiculous]," Paul explained. "My opinion is if I need to do something, God will guide me to do it. God won't let me be manipulated to do anything. So if I feel manipulated, I just don't do it."
Before, I would glance around me to spy on the surrounding crowd. When music was playing, many people remained on their feet, kept their arms raised, and would close their eyes and recite the lyrics. The bands had created a stadium-sized church. And with Paul's help, I understood that the audience had fully accepted this place as its church.
When Skillet finally arrived, the scene totally changed. There were more special effects, more smoke, harder guitar, and harder music. Then it dawned on me. As I rocked out to Skillet, I found myself raising my arm in the air, and pumping my fist. And my body was rocking to the beat of the music.
Now I was the one lifting my arm. Now I was the one moving my body to the music. And now I was the one reciting the lyrics.
People have their own form of church. Rock music is one of my churches. I was raised a Christian and had my confirmation, but I haven't been to church much since. And I'm certainly not an atheist. I believe that something bigger, more powerful is out there. I don't think he/she/it is watching us, because I'm sure he/she/it has more imperative celestial dilemmas to take care of.
Winter Jam did not enlighten me, but I was given some things to consider. And that was fair enough to me.
Was it worth ten plus hours of driving and spending money on gas, food, admission, and parking? I guess so, because I was given a different representation of people praising their God. The concert didn't force me to change my personal habits or lifestyle, although for some it may have.
Amen.
Email: jacobkno@buffalo.edu
