Sometimes I turn up a Chris Tomlin album at full blast in my car and sing “Famous One” for the ten-thousandth time and then I start to feel bad because I know it’s bubble-gum Christianese sugar-pop and it’s not real Christian music.
Well that’s what they tell me. Tomlin and Redman and Stanfill are my secret guilty pleasures, so when I get to church, I turn down the volume and tell myself it was just a one-drive stand. It’s not like my feelings were involved or anything.
Except — why should I feel this way?
Why can’t I enjoy sugary Christian praise?
Who are these people that determine how I sing to God?
I had to quit caring about this. I don’t want to defend my Tomlin-crush to some snooty theology snob who makes me feel like a sell-out whenever I buy into the “conspiracy machine of music, man.”
If someone makes me feel bad for enjoying something harmless, that’s what Jesus called a stuck-up Pharisee. I’m tired of imprisoning myself in more guilt to appease someone else’s preferences. I go to church partially to get rid of this asinine judging, not to have more layers of it.