Carman

If I had known it was a concert for Jesus freaks, I never would have come. But it was too late now. My sister had been trying to convert me for years. I thought she might have given up, accepted my indifference. I was wrong. 

I should have seen the signs. All the WWJD bumper stickers. The denim skirts. The nauseating niceness. 

At least we were in an iconic place—Texas Stadium, home of the Dallas Cowboys. It was drenched in history, more famous than the Alamo. I was never a football fan but our dad was. I remember Tom Landry and Roger Staubach, but couldn’t tell you a single player today, despite them being fresh off a Super Bowl win. 

Even though it was October, it was hot. After all, it was Texas. Sweat dripped down my back as we made our way to our seats. We were seated on the field, only a few rows back from the stage. “Great seats,” I said. If I was going to be here, I might as well get the full experience.

“They’re expecting a sellout, 70,000 people,” my sister said as I turned to look at the hordes of people coming in, “a record for a Christian concert.” I wondered if the Cowboys got this kind of turnout. Most likely they did—in Texas the only thing more popular than Jesus was football. But on this night, Jesus was giving the Cowboys a run for their money.

I looked up and noticed what looked to be a hole in the roof of the massive dome, nudging my sister and pointing to it. “What happened? Did they forget to shut it?”

She smiled. “Oh, that’s so God can watch his favorite team play.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think God has more important things to worry about than football.”

“Actually, that’s not the real reason,” she said quickly. “I think there was some glitch in the construction.” My sister never did understand sarcasm.

As the lights dimmed, the atmosphere grew electric. I never understood the psychology of crowds and what exactly happened to create those feelings of heightened expectation. Maybe we were all sending out pheromones, influencing one another’s behavior, a type of hive mentality. 

A booming voice, like a carnival barker, announced the main attraction: “Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Carman!” Everyone stood up and cheered and clapped. I had never heard of Carman but from the crowd’s reception you would think it was Jesus himself striding out on stage. 

He was clapping, half dancing, half swaying. He was well-proportioned and looked to be in good shape. He had thick black hair and a gorgeous face. And quite Italian. No wonder my sister made it a point to mention—more than once—that he wasn’t married. 

His bright blue sport coat, offset nicely by his black pants, literally glowed under the lights. He was slick and no doubt well-practiced, yet somehow made it look spontaneous.

All the elements of a typical rock concert were present: the dancers, the pulsating lights, the manic energy. The only difference was the motivation—they were doing it all for Jesus. At least that’s what they claimed: 70,000 times whatever is no small chunk of change. 

The music was upbeat, the sound quality superb. All the songs were about Jesus—or the devil. There was a lot of talk about the resurrection—if you didn’t know Jesus was alive you most certainly would now. Many of the songs were more like stories. There were videos and drama and mini-sermons. Even when he was singing he was preaching. It felt as much like a church service as it did a concert. 

Whatever it was, it sure wasn’t boring. 

After an hour of nonstop dancing and arm-raising, the energy of the crowd had not abated—if anything it had intensified. I guess all good concerts are participatory. I’ve seen videos of The Beatles where the crowd is so loud you can’t hear a word they’re singing, young women so overcome with emotion it looks like they’re possessed. 

Here the object of all that devotion was Jesus, who if I understood Christian theology correctly was God’s son but was also worshipped as God himself. There was a lot of talk about the Holy Spirit, which I assumed was another name for God. It was all very confusing. I vaguely recall sitting in church when I was little and hearing about the trinity, which I guess explained it all.

Only one thing tempered my enjoyment: I knew what was coming. At the end there would be the dreaded altar call, where you are invited to give your heart to Jesus. My sister had explained the basic premise so many times I could give the presentation myself. There were three main points: First, we’ve all sinned. I couldn’t argue with that—the world was a screwed-up place. Secondly, Jesus died for those sins. And finally, by accepting Jesus our sins could be forgiven.

It was a simple message, not hard to understand. It was really a good deal. You didn’t have to work for forgiveness—in God’s eyes you were never good enough anyway so there was no use trying to work your way to God. As long as you were truly repentant of your sins all would be forgotten. It made perfect sense to accept God’s gift of salvation. It was free for the asking. But it was too easy—the world was more complicated than that. 

I won’t deny that it would be nice to believe in something. To be convinced you were on the right path. To live on earth knowing that after you died you would live forever in heaven. What could be better?

I would be the first to admit my life wasn’t going the greatest. Divorced, dead-end job. No kids—thank God. My sister, on the other hand, had it all: lovely family, beautiful home, not to mention a pretty good job—she was a pediatrician. 

Didn’t Jesus come for the downtrodden and disadvantaged, or something to that effect? Jesus was just another jewel in her crown, the latest accessory. To subscribe to her religion would be to admit she was right all along, that if I had just followed the same path as her I could have been just as successful and perfect as she was. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. 

It was ironic that my sister was the analytical, responsible one and I was the free-spirited, go-with-the-flow type. I looked over at her—her eyes were closed and her hands outstretched. For her to be so caught up in the emotion of it all seemed incongruous. Maybe it was her release, a way to be free from her responsibilities. Me, on the other hand, my whole life was one big release—I did what I wanted. It had gotten me really far.

Despite myself, I was enjoying the show. It was quite the spectacle. Many of the songs made it sound like he was ready to get into a wrestling match with the devil himself, all machismo and standing up for God against the powers of darkness. 

When the invitation did come, streams of people came down the aisles to kneel up front and commit their lives to Jesus. I knew my sister was praying for me to do the same. 

Carman was sitting off to the side. No longer the brash entertainer, he looked contemplative, almost sad. It didn’t seem like part of the schtick.

I was still thinking about the number he had just finished performing, mostly just a couple of lines:

                           There will never be a time that he

                            Would ever turn his back on me

                            There will never be a life he can’t restore

The song was talking, of course, about Jesus. My defenses had been weakening all night but I wouldn’t admit it until now. After about the twelfth time hearing the chorus, I felt tears well up. I closed my eyes to try to fight them off. But it was no use. They came anyway. 

I didn’t go up front, but I didn’t need to. The crowd and my sister and Carman didn’t matter anymore. If Jesus was as great as all these people said he was, I would give him a chance. 

What really did I have to lose?