Jesus Freaks: Sins of the Father

Everyone around me goes nuts, clapping and cheering as they rise to their feet. I follow suit, noting the band’s name on the bass drum: Water on Fire. Having thoroughly researched all things “Student Life” at CU, I’m not surprised to see the university’s main worship band taking the stage.

The band is made up of a mix of male and female CU students, and the roster of the group changes as members graduate and new members join the fold. There’s a percussionist, a couple of guitars, and a keyboard, along with several microphone stands. But that’s standard instrumental stuff. What’s not so standard is the large projection screen behind them displaying the words to the songs they’re singing.

They start with what I take to be a very common contemporary worship song, given I hear it on the Christian music station daily covered by many different artists. I sing along and feel electrified by the talent of the group and the energy from all of those around me. Most everyone in the room, including my roommate and Jonah, has their hands raised. Some all the way up to the sky, some out to their sides, some only lifting one hand—or both. Either way, there’s lots of open praising around here.

And I’m uncomfortable. It’s not even that I can’t lift my hands. It’s that I don’t want to. What’s the point? Can’t I just sing along? I happen to know this song by heart so I’m able to close my eyes and rid my sight of the raised hands and focus on the words.

Blessed be the name of the Lord…

There’s a slow bit in this song that leaves Bridgette sniffling as she sings through whatever emotion the words have brought up. During this portion, I hear prayers springing up around me. Some in whisper, some in talk-volume. I tune into the voice on my right.

“Thank you, Jesus,” Jonah prays in a fierce whisper. “Thank you for leading me here. Guide my words and actions, Lord. Help me be a light. Let me hear you, Lord Jesus…”

It’s the most I’ve heard him speak since I met him yesterday, and I’m wrought with emotion. I feel like I’m violating his privacy somehow, though he’s well aware we’re all in public. Permeating my discomfort is a heavy sense of love. Love. Capital L. Not for Jonah, but for his clear passion for God, felt not just through his words but in the way they’re delivered. Among his young friends, next to a relative stranger, as he embarks on something he’s waited years for.

The song comes to a close, and after two more energizing and passionate numbers, the lead singer of the band asks us to bow our heads.

“Father,” he begins, slightly out of breath from the singing and moving across stage, “we thank you for bringing us here this morning for the start of what promises to be an amazing, Spirit-filled year.”

Around me, my peers offer their agreement in mumbled words.

“Amen.”

“Yes.”

“Hallelujah.”

I’m finding it hard to focus on the words he’s saying because all I’m praying for is to not fall apart when Roland takes the stage. Part of the reason I kept my eyes closed through the songs was to avoid searching for him. I don’t know how he operates during a service. Does he stay backstage until the band is done? Does he worship next to the parishioners?

I simply don’t know.

The last time I saw him was a week before my high school graduation in June. Mom asked him not to come to the ceremony. She said she was afraid it would attract attention from anyone in our liberal town who might know who he is. Trust me, no one would know who he is. I think she was afraid it would take my attention away from her. So I asked him for lunch afterward. Before that, I saw him in the fall of my senior year when he was in town and I met him for lunch to tell him I’d be applying to Carter. When I was a sophomore we got to meet up—you guessed it—for lunch when he was in town on “business.” I think I was the business, to be honest... Lunches have defined our relationship up until this point.

This morning, though, and the year ahead, will change everything.

“Please be seated,” I hear as my knees give out. I’m sure it was the lead singer of the band who said it, but in this moment I’m having trouble distinguishing between human voices and His voice.

Just because I wasn’t raised like the kids around me doesn’t mean I’ve been deprived of spiritual connection. My heart has felt God since before I really knew what to do with it. All I can do now is beg God to keep me in one piece.

There he is.

Without introduction, Roland strides to the microphone in the center of the stage with his classic charismatic swagger. He sets his Bible and what looks like an iPad on the small stand to his left. He’s wearing dark blue jeans, a short sleeved black button-down shirt—untucked—and the black Converse sneakers I’ve come to assign as his trademark. His sandy hair is longer than I’ve ever seen, and I account this to the fact he returned from Africa only yesterday. The front of his hair seems to stay away from his face with a little help from styling product. I wonder idly if he does his hair or if there’s some Spiritual Beautification Team on his side.