Facing the Music

by Jennifer Knapp

  It would have been unthinkable to do the tour without a band. So, before the tour kicked off, I flew down to Nashville, auditioned and signed a guitar player, a drummer, and a bassist. The only one of them I actually knew was the drummer, who teched for the Supertones on the Audio A tour. I don’t think anyone of us had done a tour as big as the Supernatural tour was going to be, and we would be lucky if we ever repeated it again. Joining in with us were ska up and comers, The W’s. They would warm the crowd up, and I’d launch into the best of Kansas and pray that a riot didn’t ensue before DC Talk took the stage.

  We played every major city in America on that tour and then some. East coast, west coast, north, south, midwest to southwest. In the span of a few weeks, I had traveled through more states than some Americans would see in a lifetime.

  In March, we took a small break from the tour and came back to Nashville. It was GMA week and the thirtieth Annual GMA Dove Awards (sometimes referred to as the Christian Grammys) were to take place. I’d barely been on the scene a year, so I was surprised to learn that I’d been nominated for a few Doves. The most shocking was New Artist of the Year.

  It was certainly an honor to have been nominated, but I found myself shaken by the exposure the nominations seemed to generate. Out on the road, I was nestled safely in the cocoon of my bus. I did my shows; I hung out for autographs. I’d even made a few public appearances at malls for radio stations and bookstore signings. It was chaos, but it was controlled. Everything was on a schedule, at predictable times of the day. It was contained. I could walk the streets in obscurity as my face wasn’t yet as familiar as my name. I was only famous when I was at work and I liked it that way. The frenzy of fans clamoring for autographs could be an affair that was entertaining and rewarding, but I’d only sign after shows with organized lines and security to keep things moving along. Plus, I had always hidden under the shadow of the headline acts. My popularity grew, but the pressure of it was nothing compared to what DC Talk faced. I was more than satisfied making a living sneaking through with just enough popularity to stay employed, keep the record company happy, and have a good time with it. The nominations were changing all that.

  The week of GMA was insane. Now, when I walked through the lobby of the Renaissance, I was being recognized, stopped, quizzed, and photographed. It wasn’t excessive, but it was jarring. I couldn’t relax. I felt like I was always being watched and I wasn’t prepared for it.

  One of the reasons I dared to sign with Gotee was because they were a small label. It was a place where I hoped I could be a small fish in a big pond, in a way. But the success of Kansas changed all that.

  All of a sudden I felt thrown into the deep end of CCM. It may sound crazy, but part of me was terrified about having to go to the Dove Awards because I didn’t know what to wear. I’d gone to the Doves the last two years, and I knew that I didn’t look anything like the other women in CCM. They were so feminine. They wore gowns. They wore high-heeled shoes. They had ankles. More than anything in my life, I truly feared the prospect of having my name called and having to take the stage. I had no idea what to do on a stage if I weren’t standing behind a guitar. It all seemed so exposed.

  I hoped that my name wouldn’t be called, but the awards were being broadcast, so I had to wear something halfway fitting for a celebrity for when the cameras panned to my face when my nomination was announced. I chose a black leather suit, threw on one of my sparkly gig shirts underneath, and prayed that this was enough to get me through unembarrassed.

  When my mother found out that I had been nominated, she flew down to give her support. Her being there was the one sure reminder in a storm of uncertainty that I was a normal, real-life person. Immersion into the circus of flashing lights, awards, and ball gowns was the stuff of celebrity. Was I really a celebrity now? Whatever happened, I could rely on being able to look to my family for seeing me as the ordinary person I reckoned myself to be. Knowing that, underneath it all, my mom knew me as “just Jennifer” was comforting.

  When my name was called for New Artist of the Year, my skin went numb and my brain went static. Inside, I tried not to panic. I could tell that the Bridgestone Arena was filled with music and applause, but it came into my ears only as muffled white noise. The only distinguishable sound that I heard was my mother, yelling from the darkness, “That’s my daughter!”

  Whatever words came into my brain and out of my mouth at the podium felt like gibberish. I hadn’t truly prepared and even if I had, I still don’t think I would have been ready for the flood of emotion that came pouring over me that moment. Something deep inside me had changed, but I didn’t yet know what. I found myself distracted, pushing through a wave of memories that came flooding in, demanding my attention. However, I still had to get through the rest of the night.

  I took home my first two Dove Awards and experienced my first press conference. I fielded tons of questions about what it was like to be crowned that year’s best new CCM star. It all seemed so trivial compared to what was going on inside me. All I wanted was to get to a place of quiet, so that I could process it all. The moment had been significant for me, but it wasn’t about all the pundits swirling around me seemed to think.

  Something inside me locked into place. A steadiness of spirit is the only way I know how to describe it. It started when I heard my mother’s voice. My mind began to race through a thousand painful quotes I had held onto from the stepmother, who said I would grow up to be nothing. Mental pictures of my early college days, of my body broken and inebriated, came clicking through like a rapid-fire slideshow. The nights of shame and the days where I felt so lost and out of control. A dark voice inside me said I didn’t deserve to be here and pointed to the past.

  Yet, that day, with a surprising new store of strength, I pushed it back.

  I had the power to stop being afraid of failure. I had failed in the past, I might fail in the future, but I didn’t have to waste energy on being embarrassed about the outcome, good or bad. Even if things were hard or confusing to navigate, I’d be okay, no matter what.

  thirteen

  The transition from my independent days into the corporate Christian music industry would be both welcome and challenging. Initiation into the professional ranks made it possible for me to spend more time simply being an entertainer, rather than being obligated to act as a so-called minister.

  Rather than continuing to be the special musical guest for church services and youth camps, I was now entering a world where the Christian rock concert was the high point of the night. As a signed artist, I was being asked to perform exclusively as an entertainer, a legitimate Christian rock star in the making. (Look out Amy Grant, here I come!)

  There was no doubt that I was still responsible for presenting music that engaged my Christian faith, but now, I hoped, I was free to leave the preaching to the preachers and the altar calls to the evangelical visionaries. I hoped I could be a good, wholesome entertainer who, like every other Christian, was doing their best to be like Jesus. The only difference I could see was that my journey was going to be very, very public.

  The idea that all performers are extroverted attention seekers couldn’t be further from the truth. Songwriters, especially, are quite often introverts. We often spend hours of scribbling lyrics alone in some quiet corner somewhere or losing track of time, eyes closed and singing with abandon, until the waking birds tell us that morning has arrived. The passionate music we make for others to enjoy is usually created in solitude. Alone and uninterrupted, we plumb the depths of our memories and emotions, until we emerge from the quiet abyss back into the illuminated world with a song to tell of our adventures.

  It would take me years to learn to understand my own self in this way, as an introvert. At the time, all I knew was that I was being led into public life by God as a matter of service. My Christian peers and mentors explained to me that it was my role as an obedient Christian to follow and, at all ti
mes, be like Jesus as much as humanly possible. If I was uncomfortable for any reason, if I felt pushed or worn out, it was evidence that I was being used by God. If it felt as if I was living beyond my emotional or physical means, it was an indication that I needed to submit more fully to God’s will as opposed to my own. Without nuance or appreciation of my own personal limitations, this idea was a seed that would eventually sprout into confusion and disillusionment.

  It was first planted in the early days of my independent career, when I was traveling alone from gig to gig. Both inexperienced as a Christian and as a perpetual guest, I often stayed in the private homes of my hosting religious community. It didn’t take long for me to realize that, after a long night of commanding the stage, signing autographs, and generally hanging out with folks afterwards, I needed time alone. I needed to retreat to my own space somewhere, so that I could refuel and reboot to be at my best for the next lengthy round of social demands. It seemed to make sense that, after a long day, heading to the quiet retreat of my own hotel room might be in order.

  On this, my friend cum manager, Byron, and I always seemed to disagree. Part of what came with my role as a leader in the church, he explained, was to be open to accountability. The idea being that, in avoiding the appearance of evil out on the road, I was to always be surrounded by witnesses to testify on my behalf that I was indeed on my best behavior. Going to a hotel was not only ignoring the gracious hospitality offered by my hosts, but also meant that I wasn’t observed or protected.

  Explained to me this way, it seemed that something was wrong with how I was growing as a Christian. Being grumpy or momentarily antisocial was grounds for having the validity of my faith criticized, never mind that I might just simply be tired. If ever I was short on niceties after driving endless miles, living out of a bag for a few weeks, or allergically swollen and puffy from sharing my bedroom with my host families’ cats, I might receive a letter of complaint or phone call of concerned accountability from one of my hosts.

  They might say, “We’re really concerned about Jennifer’s walk with the Lord. When we asked her to spend the day of her concert whitewater rafting, she declined. It’s not a very good witness for Jesus if she doesn’t hang out with us.”

  At the end of the day, I knew that it was up to me to be well-rested and prepared to perform my concerts. What mattered most was preserving my energy for the time I was called to use it. Whenever I am out sharing, it’s an honor to give every ounce that I have in connecting with others. The point for me was that I wanted to share, but for that, I need to be prepared and well-rested to do my best.

  Early on, I became accustomed to how people in the church can have a tendency to complain about others by judging someone’s likeness to Christ by their own perceptions of what a Christian should or shouldn’t look like, do, or not do.

  The trivial criticisms were easy enough to handle. It took a lot more to dent my sense of spiritual integrity than to call me un-Christlike for not having energy for, or want to risk death over, rafting. It didn’t matter to me that anyone would judge my character by such a thing because nothing in true depth of character could be revealed in such a choice. That I was here, everyday, persisting in striving to follow God, understand God, and serve God—that was the best evidence I had to offer.

  Being a dedicated entertainer seemed to fix all that for a while. I was cloistered away on tour buses, in backstage dressing rooms, and in controlled autograph settings. I still played at the odd church or two, but it was under the umbrella of the tour machine. For a while, I thought that I had found a way in which I could navigate living in a world where my decision to be a person of faith walked in the room ahead of me.

  But, after the Dove Awards, my world seemed to contract instead of expand.

  What I was going to have to understand was that in signing on to be a Christian artist, I wasn’t just an ordinary Christian anymore. Now, I was going to be a model example for the Christian life. From the trivial to the theologically defined expectations of everything a Christian is supposed to be and represent, I was now responsible for representing Jesus.

  It doesn’t take long to figure out that in the Christian subculture, the biggest criticism to throw at someone is to question their integrity as a believer. To survive it, I was going to have to learn how to function while having my every perceived misdemeanor scrutinized under the high expectations of what it means to be, act, and speak as a Christian. I had to learn to roll with the punches. If I failed to make the proper eye contact with a fan while signing an autograph, or if they were asked to move forward in the line too quickly, bam!: “You’re not a very good Christian.”

  If I wore a tank top in a one-hundred-degree heat, boom!: “A skin-revealing harlot!”

  Such trivial matters are relatively easy to move past, but it fosters a kind of risk/reward relationship between public Christian figures and those who look upon them. Regardless of the gravity of the slight or imperfection, every Christian artist’s career rests in the hands of those who measure the integrity of their spiritual journey against their own idea of what a Christian is, or should, be. Fail to represent that standard to the right people and your CD could sit on the shelf collecting dust, career over.

  For those unfamiliar with the contemporary Christian music industry, I like to describe it this way: Music made by Christians, for Christians, and for the intent of making more Christians. While it is a genre unto itself, it is unique in that the style of music is not the primary identifier. The musical styles run the gamut from inspirational worship to rap but, as a genre, CCM is beholden to a lyrical content and intent that must speak specifically to Christ as the Redeeming Son of God.

  This is also a mandate for the personal, private religious life of an artist in the industry: Each must be a credible, self-professed Christian. There was a time, and perhaps it still exists, when a new artist would have to be observed by the label for a year or so before they were allowed to sign a contract. It needs to be evident that the artist is the proper kind of Christian in order to proceed. It’s not unusual to have morality clauses woven into recording contracts that encourage the artist to stay on the straight and narrow.

  Some artists have been required to sign legal documents that attest that they will abstain from sex if unmarried, avoid drunkenness, and, occasionally, declare that they are not gay. The principle obligations for every artist, writer, preacher, or leader of any kind are to be the embodiment of the Christian lifestyle, to illuminate Christianity as the way to God, and to encourage others to follow with you. In terms of observable religious practice, this is pretty much the standard definition of traditional Evangelical Christianity. It is in this way that those who participate in the genre of CCM are ultimately expected to appreciate, endorse, and maintain that same evangelical standard or look for another job.

  I understood that for listeners to trust Christian music as a genre, consumers had to be confident in the artist’s faith. (This is generally true through all the inner workings of the CCM industry, from whoever answers the desk at reception, to the cashier at the local Christian bookstore, to the decision makers, like label presidents. Each must generally be comfortable defining their status a follower of Christ.) However, what happens to those who have chosen Christianity as their religion and language of spiritual expression but are not, by nature or reason, theologically evangelical?

  I had given my life to God and was more than willing to acknowledge how much that decision had positively affected my life. I had vowed to serve Him with my music and relied upon that commitment to sustain me. Yet, in doing so, I began to realize that I had stumbled into a curious predicament that befalls so many people of faith. So long as my personal commitment to Jesus was deemed worthy by my fellow Christians, I would have a place at the table. I would be welcome in church. Welcome to sing. But, if I stumbled, and committed too great a sin (however such things are variably measured), if I doubted too much, or
was too liberal in my thinking, or theology, not only would my faith be criticized, but my entire livelihood also stood to be affected as well.

  It may seem strange, but the worry about losing my career didn’t matter to me as much as the constant adjudication of my spiritual character. A career as an entertainer, Christian or otherwise, is ultimately an unreliable field of employment. The fact that I had a career at all was remarkably humbling. The odds are never in favor of a career of any sort, let alone longevity.

  No, I liked my job, but it wasn’t what made me get up in the morning. Above all, I sought to be a person of integrity. I wanted to honor God with my life and spent every day living, breathing, and working to that end, but what never ceased to wear away at my endurance was the constant assessment of everything I did, funneled through but one narrow view of Christianity.

  In my travels, and all the people I had ever met and been inspired by, what moved me was the diversity of how we all came to see a common thing. That is a conversation I can contribute to. I’ve known what it is to be inspired and moved by God’s grace, the frailty of humanity, the power of forgiveness, and boundless love. This, this, is what kept me talking about my experiences. This is what I wanted to write about. If I had a choice as to what kind of Christianity I hoped to represent, it was not that there was only one way, but rather, a way, that had given me hope. I wasn’t taking the stage to endorse a particular brand of theology, but rather to inspire, connect, and rejoice in the revelation that we can all love and be loved.

  For my own part in CCM, I did my very best to remain faithful to presenting the best virtues of Christianity but, as my star continued to rise, and the expectation that I would be a Christian role model came to the fore, my theologies and spirit were being tested.