In May 2011, I went to Sasquatch, my first big music festival. I know some of you are thinking, “A four-day drinking spree sound-tracked by noisy rock music in the middle of a field? No, thanks. Not for me.”
But I beg to differ.
Rock and roll culture has always had a mixed reputation in Christian circles, teetering between the “secular” and “non-secular.” But if we truly believe God created this world and everything in it, why wouldn’t that include rock and roll?
Therein lies the problem: the institution of “church” often gets in the way and we end up condemning aspects of mainstream culture that can actually teach us a lesson.
Sasquatch Music Festival takes place in the Gorge, a breathtakingly beautiful campsite and festival venue in the middle of Washington state. When we arrived on a Friday in the late afternoon, a tent city had already been created. There were countless makeshift rows of campsites nestled in the dry, uncut grass. Every person I passed seemed as if they had stepped off a page from Urban Outfitters’ summer catalogue, complete with Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand.
When we began unloading our gear, I wondered about the couple setting up camp next door. I found myself asking why they were at the festival – they weren’t nearly hip or stylish enough. It wasn’t their scene. But as we set up side-by-side, they put out a small boom box and began playing a band that would be performing later that weekend, one that I had been eagerly anticipating.
The couple struck up a conversation and talk quickly turned to the band. They apologized sheepishly for playing the same songs repeatedly. I said I didn’t mind and that I was just as excited to see the band later on. Over the next few days, the couple lent us supplies we had forgotten and even invited us to join them for beers in the evening. It wasn’t long before I felt guilty about how quickly I had initially written them off.
One evening, as I was heading back to the festival from my campsite, I stopped and looked over the rolling fields. Hundreds — if not thousands — of tents stretched out before me, completely quiet and deserted.
I thought of the girl I’d chatted with during Major Lazer’s set while sitting on the grass on the outskirts of the crowd. We had ranted about our ex-boyfriends and their new girlfriends. I thought of the drunken dude who walked alongside us on the dirt path between the campsite and the festival grounds. As it turns out, his parents owned a skate shop not far from where my friend lived in Kelowna, BC. I thought of the two friends who had accompanied me to Sasquatch. They’d met each other for the first time at the beginning of the weekend but connected almost instantly.
Every person I’d met at Sasquatch had offered a smile and shaken my hand warmly. It didn’t matter where we were from or what our history held. We had all made the trek to the middle of Washington State, to set up for four days in a field with no running water and no electricity. We’d all gathered for the same reason: We wanted to hear some rock and roll.
I was ashamed when I thought of how I’d acted in the past, how I’d let gossip and judgment into my church community and I’d done nothing to stop it. Meanwhile, these complete strangers from the other side of the country had somehow ended up in the campsite next to me, and were perfectly willing to offer help and kind greetings. We’d connected over the common love of rock and roll.
Even with the bad reputation that sometimes plagues the rock music community, I’ve seen more unpretentious openness in the mosh pit of a concert than at some churches. Fans in a crowd quickly become friends after a few minutes of singing along to the same song. That type of acceptance is what we Christians need to practice much more often. It would do us well to remember that we’re all here for a common purpose.
There’s a big show happening and you and I have front-row seats for the headliner.
