Welcome to Sunday Morning Hot Tea where I (try to) send you something to read each week.
We are in full swing on the Sinisterhood tour now! Woohoo! We also traveled out of town this weekend to shoot a cool thing that should come out in a few months. Lots of plane rides and rental cars and hotel rooms, but also lots of fun.
All that to say, I am still writing each week, but I may not always get to edit and polish stuff into shape worthy of your eyeballs. Only the best for you, friends. However, I made it this week, with a lot of coffee and some typing in rental cars. Apologies to Christie, Tommy, and LeeAnn for my backseat clattering on the way to Toronto.
This week, my conversion to Belieberism.
The Gospel According to Bieber
Mid-morning on a Tuesday, I am sitting in Well Grounded Coffee trying to get my morning pages done. At once, I am surrounded on all sides by people. The first is a man in his mid-40s, taking a seat at a table just to my right. He opens his laptop and starts typing on a corporate messaging app. In short order, he has minimized the app and is now hosting a full-blown meeting via video chat. To his credit, he has headphones in, but that doesn’t do much for the rest of us who can hear his half of the meeting.
At the counter, an older gentleman has pulled out his phone while waiting for his coffee. He dials a number, and the ring bursts from his speaker. A woman answers. This guy is easily in his mid-70s, and the woman who has answered on the other end sounds both young and interested in his call. From the sounds of their voices, she is probably his daughter. He begins by telling her all the latest medical procedures he has undergone. Then he follows up with news of the recent “gully washer” that we had all endured the night before.
“How about all that lightning waking us up last night?” the corporate guy says to his meeting attendees.
“It hasn’t rained that hard in months,” the older man says.
They are each having two sides of the same conversation.
A third man stands up from his tall stool, laptop propped beside a wall.
“Hello, this is Dave,” he says into the microphone of his headset.
Aren’t I in a public place? I think. Not wanting to give up my primo writing spot before finishing my coffee or my pages, I put in my earbuds to drown them all out.
The playlist I choose? All Bieber.
I was not born a Belieber. I am a recent convert. Like many adults who join a religion later in life, I converted after attending a particularly moving service. In this case, it was Bieber’s one night in Dallas on his current JUSTICE tour.
Also like many religions, I was brought to the faith by a friend. Christie has been a Belieber since his documentary was in theaters. I had always heard his songs on the radio, but never dived in much further than that.
It was a warm Sunday night in early May when I joined the congregation. Walking from a nearby Tex-Mex restaurant in Victory Park, Christie and I approach the front steps to the American Airlines Center.
At the bottom of the steps, we are greeted by a group of people ranging from their mid-20s to mid-40s, standing in a semi-circle. If one of them wasn’t holding a sign warning us about hell and the other wasn’t commanding me to repent via a handheld bullhorn, I might have thought they were there to see the show. Or maybe to drop their kids off to see the show. But no, they aren’t dropping off any son. They are here on behalf of the Son - or at least they claim to be.
“The Bible is the word of God,” the man shouts through the bullhorn. It sounds harsher than what it could have had he just been speaking normally. I am no expert proselytizer, but I think he should maybe invest in a more updated sound system. Heck, a good portable karaoke machine would do the trick. The way his voice sounds coming through the bullhorn, it sounds like at any moment he may add to the end of his sentence like a drill sergeant, “You little maggots!”
“Do what pleases God,” he says, and my mind completes the sentence, “Then drop and give me twenty!”
We continue inside toward our seats. Coming from a quick stop in the bathroom, we can hear the audience screaming for JADEN - Jaden Smith, whose stage name on all the tour literature is written in all-caps.
Just a few minutes before Bieber is set to take the stage, we take our seats. The lights go out and some intro music begins. The crowd’s screams are the loudest sounds I’ve heard in my whole life and I once stood on a runway next to a departing B-29 bomber. Based on the preemptively titillated screams, I prepare myself for what I am assuming will be a pretty sexual show.
I settle back in my seat and stick my VIBES concert-specific earplugs in. Biebs is a one-man boy band after all. People (mostly women) in the audience concentrate the amount of energy normally reserved for four or five band members into just him. It’s a laser beam of devotion, the sound of which fills every one of the 1.4 million square feet of this building.
The lights have been out for a few moments, and there’s still no Bieb in sight. The crowd screams in darkness, louder and louder, until the lights go up. A video board spanning the width of the stage begins playing a video.
It’s Bieber. At the sight of his image, the impossibly loud screams somehow get louder. The video shows him in a field of grass, walking with arms outstretched. A voiceover - his own voice - narrates along with subtitles. The words sound like the platitudes you find on wooden signs at Hobby Lobby or under #quotes on Instagram.
“Life is hard,” he tells us in nearly a whisper. “It’s a lot of pressure on us every day. The world needs unity and hope. If you feel alone, just know - you are loved.”
If these words were coming from anyone else, I imagine at least a percentage of people in the audience would reject this saccharine mess. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Bieber. From his mouth, it’s gospel. Even with my own Bieb-ignorance, I feel sucked in.
Maybe it all will get better, I think.
Then the message shifts from general platitudes to specific encouragement.
“All we have to do is lean on our savior. God will protect us.”
Okay, that was unexpected, but it’s your show, buddy. We’re a captive audience. Preach on.
And he does.
What looks like a giant discarded pool toy on stage begins to move. It’s a deflated airplane that is now filling with air. Once full, it levitates in the air. The video screen goes dark. The hatch above the cockpit pops open, and there he is.
From our seats in the 300 section, Bieber seems tiny. A skinny man-boy in a red polo, black slacks, white sneakers, and a black fitted ball cap turned backwards. Part of his trademarked beautiful face is obscured by wraparound sunshades. He is wearing black leather gloves on both hands.
Without greeting the audience, he launches into “Somebody” off the album Justice for which the tour is named. Soon, the overt mentions of God from the video intro make tons of sense. The first line of the first song talks about thanking God. The next song promises that Heaven is a place not too far away. After that, he sings about praying that he doesn’t go back to who he once was. Song four is straight up called “Holy,” and he sings it with six giant neon-pink crosses behind him that look like a rave graveyard. A raveyard.
I should clarify, none of this is a criticism. Each song is one bop after another. I don’t even know these songs. I have never heard most of them, but I am dancing along, stomping my beer-soaked feet to the beat.
What gets me is each song, framed in religious imagery, is also real horny. For instance, “Holy” includes a tambourine percussion beat that would be at home in a gospel church rhythm section. Backed by a piano and full choir, this could be a Sunday morning service rather than a Sunday evening concert. At the start of the song, I wonder whether the love he sang of could be his love for God. Then I hear the words.
The way we love in the night gave me life.
I sure hope that’s not about God.
The lyrics make it clear that the subject is a girl, likely his wife, Hailee. They’re married, so from a strictly moral perspective, it’s fine if they make love in the night. From a musical perspective, it’s even better. You feel the song from head to toe — the percussion, the softness of his voice that dips into a deep wail. Soon my hands are up. I am singing along: On God, Running to the altar like a track star.
The music is working on all the people around us, too. The row of gal pals behind us has not stopped screaming since the show’s start. They have commented on his hot body. They have chugged their Truly cans and spilled their Bud Lights. One called out, “I am so fucked up, Briana!” She didn’t have to holler that. We already knew based on her loud, off-key scream-singing.
About halfway through the set, he begins giving an extemporaneous speech on race relations in the United States. It is the kind of speech you can tell right from the start does not yet have a middle or end.
“Our world right now is in a tough place,” he tells us. “Racism is a disease taking over our planet. We have to be the change makers. We have to step up and have those conversations with our friends and family.” I nod along with him. Somewhere behind me I hear a distinctly drunk female voice say, “Yessssss!” I am not sure if it’s Briana or the one who told Briana that she is fucked up.
I hope the “Yesss” is in response to his speech, but more likely Brianna handed her another Truly. After finishing his homily, he plays hit after hit, eventually removing his sunglasses.
“Oh my God,” the woman behind us says. “He took off his sunglasses. I was going to go to the bathroom but not now. Maybe he’ll take off his shirt next.”
If he did strip off that red polo, I think Briana and company would be disappointed. Based on what I have heard, he is certainly wearing a full priest collar underneath. It’s the only possibility. We wouldn’t see abs. We would see vestments.
Towards the end of the show, he plays his mega-hit “Baby” then leaves the stage. Moments later, to another round of deafening screams, he reemerges from beneath the stage floor playing a white piano. As he tinkles out a melody, he lets us know that if we’re having a hard time, we should know we are not alone.
“Things in the world are leaving us depressed. You guys aren’t alone. You’re not alone. Sometimes we feel like we’re the only people going through it. We look around, and it feels like everyone else has got it together. But this is just not true,” he says.
He plays more. Women scream. He tilts his head and puts his lip right up against the mic and whispers to us.
“There’s hope, you know, because God says he’s near to the broken-hearted. He’s near to the broken-hearted. He’s near to the broken-hearted. That’s how he moves,” he says with what sounds like the utmost sincerity. I believe that he believes every word he says.
The camera cuts from Justin to a woman in the audience. She’s in her mid-30s, arms wrapped around herself, her face is contorted. She lets tears fall down her cheeks.
The camera is back on Justin. He continues to comfort her and all of us.
“Don’t be ashamed of your brokenness. Just give it to Him. He’ll take care of it. He’ll take care of you. He says He clothes the lilies with splendor and wonder. He’ll take care of you. He’ll take care of you.”
Head down, he plays more. More screams. He shifts to introducing the band members, one by one, then the opening acts and dancers. He also thanks all the people who put the stage together. Again, he sounds as if he began talking with no real plan of where he was going. Gratitude just spills out from his lips. He thanks us, too, for being there.
Then, gently – just as gently as he told us God would take care of us – he begins to sing:
I get my peaches out in Georgia
Oh yeah shit
I get my weed from California
That’s that shit
I took my chick up to the North, yeah
Bad ass bitch
I get my light right from the source, yeah
Yeah that’s it
It breaks me. I let out a laugh. He had just quoted John 3:16 and now has blessed us with this jam.
Justin isn’t wrong, after all. The good Lord made everything, I suppose – peaches, weed, bad ass bitches, and all.
He ends the set with a song called “Anyone,” a declaration of forever love that starts out illustrated with a video collage of his wife and ends with photo after photo of fans.
You are the only one I’ll ever love, he promises us, as our own faces splash across the enormous screen. If it’s not you it’s not anyone. Looking back on my life, you’re the only good I’ve ever done.
As he leaves the stage for the final time, the screams reach a fever pitch. Finally, they die down into a euphoric murmur of exiting parishioners.
On the way to the car, we see the protestors again. Tired youths sit on the steps before the hellfire and brimstone signs, waiting for rides and ignoring the man on the megaphone. Their faces in their phones, the Beliebers scroll the pics and videos of the sermon they’ve just sat through, tuning out the one going on in front of them.
One member of the protesting flock paces back and forth, thrusting bright yellow pamphlets into people’s unwilling hands. He leans his face close to a young girl who is crafting a Snapchat and asks her if she knows Jesus. I interrupt him.
“Can I have a pamphlet?” I ask. He hands me one without looking up.
As we walk back to the parking garage, I read a few lines to Christie.
Heaven, it turns out, has a few design flaws if this street pamphlet is to be trusted. “Gates never close.” Ok that’s called space. “No sun or moon. No hospitals. No ambulance services.” Note to self: don’t get injured and leave the sunscreen at home.
The back side is all about Hell. Two cartoon figures writhe in a burning fire, hands on either side of their faces, mouths agape with regret.
“Don’t let this happen to you,” the caption reads. Printed beneath the drawing is a long list of everyone who will be “thrown into this ETERNAL FIRE.” The list includes “male prostitutes” specifically and “those who don’t produce fruit.”
And should you end up there? You should know that Hell is “not a place where you will party with your friends,” just FYI. Not sure about everyone else, but I have never been promised that. I have, however, been to some parties that have felt like an eternity in Hell.
The sheet also warns us that Hell is not “this present life,” though after these past two years, many of us would beg to differ. It is also not only “for people like Charles Manson, Adolph Hitler, bank robbers, or murderers.” This list is so strangely out of order my brain breaks. It’s not listed most worst to least worst. It’s not in chronological order. It’s not alphabetical. It’s nonsense like most of the page.
The bottom part of the pamphlet could have been a transcription of what we heard inside the concert: “He who has the Son has life.” That part tracks. The rest, not so much.
Inside the parking garage elevator, stuffed shoulder to shoulder with other concert goers, I ask: “Did y’all get your pamphlets?”
I hold the yellow paper up. They laugh.
“Is that a drawing of Hell on the back?” one woman asks.
“I think so,” I tell her, holding it for her to see.
As the door opens, the man with his arms wrapped around her asks, “Don’t they know we got a dose of that inside the show?”
“Right?” I say walking out into the garage.
I’m no biblical scholar, but I know a little something about messaging. One of the messages that went out this night made it through. It had people crying and singing and believing. The other made it as far as the pile of trash on my car’s floorboard.
Back in the coffee shop, my Bieber playlist rolls on. In my ear, Justin sings a sweet message: Take me as I am, swear I'll do the best I can.
I look around at the bedlam in the coffee shop. The owner wiping sweat from her forehead. The new employee behind the counter studying the buttons on the register. The businessman encouraging his employees in his video chat. The older man sipping his coffee and connecting with his daughter about gully washers and bone scans.
I do as the Biebs tells me. I take them all as they are. I choose to believe they’re doing the best they can. We all are, aren’t we? Still, I turn up the music until it’s all I can hear, ever grateful for both the melody and the message.
—
If you want an intro to Bieber playlist, you can check out mine here.
Until next week, that’s the tea, and on tour with Sinisterhood is where I’ll mostly be.
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