I grew up in rural Mississippi. I grew up in a traditional Southern Baptist Church in a small community. Attendance typically maxed out at no more than 70 (Easter, Christmas and a few times during softball season when team members were trying to squeeze in their required Sunday appearances to stay eligible for Tuesday night games). Most weeks, we had between 20-40 in the pews. I was related to half of t hem.  It was a legalistic environment, complete with the vein-popping, pacing and sweating, overly zealous pastor prowling the pulpit and calling out sinners. I remember one Sunday when we learned Rock and Roll was evil, was of the devil. We dissected (literally) the song Hotel California by the Eagles, calling out all the references to drugs, the occult, the devil himself.

It’s not that I’m ragging on the church where I came to know Jesus, where I grew up and was equipped with a working knowledge of the Bible, where I actually had a couple of mentors who deeply shaped me, but it was an oppressive, stifling experience and emblematic of what can go wrong with organized religion. You were judged harshly there. Gossiped about for indescretions large or small. And there were a few occassions when I think our congregation just simply made bad choices with the best of intentions. Rock and roll is not the enemy. I’ve known that for years. The enemy is me. I am most often the one who steps between me and God. I am the reason for stunted growth in Christ. It’s too easy to point at enviornmental factors as the focus of our battle, when the most trying, difficult battles we wage occur within our own skin.