The year was 2001. I found myself in the vast sanctuary of First Baptist Church in Nashville, accompanying my girlfriend, a country singer, to a traveling worship band’s performance. As the band played, a particular Christian Song resonated with the gathered Christians. Soon, hands were raised, eyes were closed, and voices joined in unison – a powerful scene of collective worship with nearly a thousand people participating.
I had always been intrigued and even moved by this openhearted display of faith among my Christian peers. Raised in the more formal and traditional Catholic Church, this style of worship, brimming with emotion and outward expression, felt foreign yet compelling. While my initial exposure to such fervent worship, sometimes involving jumping and tears, sparked curiosity about what felt like a different world, I eventually came to see it as a refreshing and perhaps more authentic way to connect with the divine. I tried to participate, though a sense of self-consciousness and uncertainty always lingered.
On that particular day at First Baptist, I was grappling with severe depression, a shadow that had followed me for years. Everything, especially in my early twenties, felt like a performance, a constant struggle. Church and singing these Christian songs were no different. The ingrained voice of my Catholic conscience, which I suspected played a role in my depression, urged me onward. It whispered that the only true path was through God, suggesting that perhaps, if my spirit were pure enough, my eyes closed tight enough, my singing sincere enough, I might finally encounter God and find solace from my deep sadness. And so, with a heavy heart and heavier hands, I lifted them in worship and sang along.
Before I recount the epiphany that struck me moments later, it’s important to understand my unique perspective at that time. Firstly, my depression had created a distinct separation between myself and “Everyone Else.” While isolating and painful, this detachment allowed me to observe those around me with a certain objectivity, like a traveler studying the customs of a foreign land. This sense of being an outsider, which could intensify into outright alienation, was crucial for the realization I was about to have.
Secondly, I had been a songwriter for seven years. Songwriting became my refuge in my early teens, a way to stay connected to myself amidst the fog of depression. This dependence deepened as I signed a songwriting deal with a major publishing house on Music Row. On that day of worship, songwriting was my primary coping mechanism, my livelihood, and perhaps the last vestige of my self-confidence. Depression had blurred much of my identity, but I was still, undeniably, a songwriter. Having leaned on songwriting through difficult times, I believed I possessed a certain discernment, a capacity to recognize a poorly crafted song when I heard one.
A few songs into the service, the worship leader paused to announce a new song, written by the band while on tour. He declared it “special,” even “anointed,” which I found presumptuous, though I couldn’t deny a flicker of admiration for his confidence, or the audacity of claiming divine blessing on their latest creation. He then launched into the song’s chord progression.
It sounded like a typical worship song, and after a few repetitions of the chorus, the congregation seamlessly transitioned into the familiar posture of raised hands and closed eyes, singing along as if the song were ingrained in their very being. For a chorus or two, I joined them. I was still trying, however falteringly, to worship, a sad creature attempting to connect with its Creator. (“But it’s not the Creator’s fault you’re sad!” that inner Catholic voice would interject. “If you’re unhappy, you’re simply not trying hard enough!”) I sang with the same intentions as countless times before – to draw closer, to find relief, to offer praise.
But then, I stopped. I had to stop. Something about the lyrics jarred me. I opened my eyes.
Let our song be like sweet incense to your heart, Oh God
The lyric struck me as profoundly awkward. My songwriter’s mind immediately began to dissect it, even as the congregation continued to sing with fervor:
Let our song,
…which is a sound,
be like sweet incense,
…which is a smell, or something that produces smell,
to your heart,
…which is an organ that can neither hear nor smell!
“Good Lord,” I thought, “are you actually hearing this?”
I knew I was being critical, perhaps overly so. But honestly, it was just bad writing. Disposable. I scanned the room, wondering if anyone else shared my reaction. We were, after all, in Nashville, the songwriting capital of the world. Perhaps I’d see someone with a bewildered expression, or maybe someone clutching their ears in mock agony. But instead, I saw hundreds of fellow worshippers, eyes closed, hands raised, singing these utterly nonsensical words with heartfelt sincerity.
In that moment, I felt the nascent crack in my relationship with religion, and with my own religious self. The realization was unsettling. “This is not right. This feels wrong. This is deeply strange.” These people were singing words that were literally meaningless. It would be one thing if it were just a silly pop song on the radio, but this was different. They were offering this drivel directly to God. Presenting it as a gift! How could they do this? How could they sing without thinking? Didn’t God deserve better? Something, at the very least, that made logical sense? As well-intentioned as these singers were, could God possibly be holding his ears and weeping?
Turning my gaze inward, I saw myself as one of them, and that realization was even more frightening. I had sung countless Christian songs like this without a second thought. Maybe not quite as lyrically inept as this one, but close enough. And if I could sing meaningless songs without thinking, what else had I accepted without question? What other unquestioned teachings had shaped me? What did I truly believe, what had I professed, that I didn’t actually understand? Why was I, a supposedly rational being, singing nonsense along with all these other people? These unsettling questions sent my heart racing, and for the first time, the ever-present Catholic voice within offered no comforting answers.
On the drive home, I shared my experience with my girlfriend. She dismissed my concerns, telling me I was “missing the point” and being “a dick.” The lyrics weren’t the point, she explained. What mattered was the feeling the song evoked. If it brought you closer to God, if it was an act of praise, then the literal meaning of the words was irrelevant. God saw your heart, your intentions, and blessed you for it. Amen.
I understood her perspective, and I didn’t judge her for it. If she had considered it all and found no issue, then good for her. May she find peace, and may God forgive her for singing bad lyrics. But I was far from peaceful. I could sense that this conversation felt unsettling, even sacrilegious, to her, so I let it drop. Relieved, she turned on the radio and started singing along to a country song, while I stared out the window, knowing I could never simply “sing along” again. The thought terrified me. From that moment on, I needed to understand what I was singing and why.
The Catholic voice still managed to get me to church and sing a few more Christian songs. But its influence waned. The questions sparked by that terrible lyric were seismic, shaking the foundations of my faith. As those questions grew larger and more challenging, my religion began to crumble. Within a year of hearing that song, I stopped singing worship songs altogether, and I stopped identifying as a Christian.
In the wake of my apostasy, I immersed myself in books. I was openly searching for guidance on living life without faith. One book that resonated deeply was Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being, where he wrote, “Metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.” Reflecting on that unfortunate songwriter and his dreadful Christian song, I wish I could tell him something similar, but about similes. Because similes, too, are dangerous. Similes are not to be trifled with. A single simile can lead a person right out of church.
