The Day Steve Camp Blocked Me

What I learned about myself the day the music died

I cut my teeth on Contemporary Christian Music—or CCM, as it is often called—as a young boy in Indiana. Petra, 4Him, Point of Grace, Degarmo & Key, Whiteheart, Steve Camp, and so many others were instrumental in forming my musical proclivities …as well as my spiritual ones.

When I landed a job in Christian Radio during college, I felt I had hit the Christian Subculture jackpot. What could be better than an all-access pass to the behind-the-scenes lives of the most important influencers of my fledgling faith?

Almost anything could be better, I found.

“Never meet your idols, kid.”

This was some of the earliest advice that seasoned radio personalities shared.

“No, seriously. Never meet your idols… or at least, don’t forget that they’re human.”

Good advice.

Humans tend to make idols out of, well, literally everything. We sacralize everything that we touch.

It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. In the hands of a seasoned, mature Christian, Jesus gets worshipped. In the hands of a college kid, Jars of Clay.

This advice has single-handedly helped my faith weather the storm of an increasingly christless segment within USAmerican Evangelicalism.

As the church failed to respond well to various refugee crises, sexual abuse situations, George Floyd, the Insurrection, COVID, white supremacy, Christian Nationalism, and MAGA, my faith held firm.

And even as pastors fell, one by one, to the cult of country-over-Christ, my faith withstood.

I learned at an early age that Christian artists, pastors, and spiritual leaders would disappoint me. So when they did, I was ready. I expected to be let down.

I didn’t realize I was unique in that way.

Many of my friends were never able to fully disassociate toxic Christians from true Christianity. So when someone they idolized ended up being a disappointment, it deeply affected their spiritual health.

Where I could write off hypocrisy, others could not.

And, it is hard to blame them.

Our idols help model the kind of faith we wish to shape within.

I still remember the day I met Steve Camp online

I had just returned to Twitter and couldn’t have had more than 1,000 followers at the time, maybe less, a bit more, who knows. No one cared what I had to say in those days, and it was pure bliss. So for me, a random comment on my feed from “PastorSteveCamp” was a big deal.

THAT Steve Camp? I thought.

…. nah, it can’t be.

But after clicking through, Yes, that Steve Camp!

Uuuuuuuuugh.
#^&^%$

He’s gone full MAGA, I thought.

His wall was a mess.

I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it so often as to now be mostly desensitized to it.

I’ve seen it in family. I’ve seen it congregants. I’ve seen it in friends.

But he is a … PASTOR.

I was disappointed, but I am a pastor too.

I have to be kind.

So, I put on my pastoral “diplomacy” hat and wrote a compassionate response that told him how much his music meant to me—at the time, I had actually been listening to one of his old songs on repeat for three days straight—and I skirted the issue he was upset about.

I patted myself on the back, thinking I had dodged a bullet.

No.

More were on their way.

Over the following months, this would be our rhythm: Steve trying to shame me and pin me down, and me avoiding him as best I could.

Steve challenged me to a debate.

No, Steve.

Steve invited me to “coffee”—we found we live 20 minutes apart—No, Steve. Unless you can commit to only talking about non-political/non-theological topics.

He said he couldn’t do that. I need to know that this was an intervention and I needed to be called to repentance.

Okay, Steve. 🙄

This was our rhythm, but it was increasingly clear that his frustration was growing. Hard as I try to avoid and diffuse, it was becoming increasingly impossible. He was passionate about my redemption.

We were in agreement on that passion, we simply agreed on what parts of me needed redeeming most.

Admittedly, it has to be difficult to be consistently rebuffed when you feel you are right. And for those who feel it is their religious responsibility to police others’ theologies—calling all who disagree with their doctrine to repentance and condemnation—it must be frustrating to have those calls go ignored.

Then, the picture

As easy as it was to overlook and placate repeated calls for repentance, it was equally impossible for me to ignore this picture when I stumbled across it.

My heart broke.
I was wrecked.
Words still fail me.

One of Steve’s classic songs was playing as I read what seemed a rather dismissive response. And not just dismissive, but a sense of justification of the shirt. Maybe even pride.

“Never meet your idols, kid… or at least, don’t forget that they’re human.”

But God, this is TOO human

Very few pieces of my fundamentalist upbringing continue to bring me joy and transformation rather than regret.

But this picture…

That damnable picture broke something in me.

I was angry.

Livid.

How dare you take this music from me that has been my lifeline for so long and through so much heartache.

HOW DARE YOU.

Even as I write this, I am in tears.

The depths of pain that single picture caused is difficult to fully quantify.

It felt as though a necessary pipeline to my past had erupted and the tears were gushing down my beet red face.

Was it righteous anger?

Between you and me, I just don’t know.

I may never know.

I am grateful that I worked through that anger before responding to Steve again. And while I am not certain that all of my interactions were kind and compassionate, I tried. Dear God I tried. And I hope that they were, even if they were ever direct.

But then, today.

Farewell, Steve Camp.

Today, I triggered Steve Camp into blocking me.

It was an accident, but I think it was also my fault. And I have to own that.

I just couldn’t get past that picture.

How could a guy that was condemning me and calling me to repent with every interaction—over something about which I could not repent—never repent for wearing this shirt and flashing a gun symbol over it?

A few days ago, having had my fill, I decided I would respond to every comment he made on my feed with a copy of the picture and a request for him to address it and publicly repent.

Firm, but kind. But firm.

And for this, I may need to repent.

I’m not certain that was the right response.

I can’t remember the last time I called someone to repentance, especially publicly. I spend most of my time calling myself to repentence… and I have enough there to keep me busy for awhile.

And my hope is to help others realize their need for repentence without my having to say it. Lead a horse to water, as it were.

So deciding to do this publicly and repeatedly was, well, I’m just not certain I was in the right. And I am still not certain of it.

So, this is me repenting.

Am I the only one who questions themselves and their motives ALL of the time?

Transparently, I struggle with the nature of my responses.

I regularly wrestle with whether or not I respond correctly to the situation at hand.

For instance, I regularly walk away from Twitter wrecked with self-doubt about my interactions.

Like. Daily.

Did I respond well?
Did I validate the humanity of others?
Was I my authentic self, mess and all, for better or worse?
Did I stand with the oppressed, taking their abuse upon myself?
Did people see Christ in me?
Was I kind but firm?

I’m not sure that I did that well today, or that I always do it well, but I want to. So each day I wake up, and I try to be the kind of person that doesn’t deserve being blocked by a legend and an idol.

But, I have also learned that I am a Revolutionary, the type of person who is involved in or the cause of a complete or dramatic change.

That seems to fit me pretty well, tbh.

And today, for better or worse, that change is one less person following my Twitter feed. And I am kind of sad about it.

That person was is a VIP in my life.

The good news is, I can still listen to Steve’s music whenever I want.

And isn’t that the stance I should always live out?

If they bleed, they are not my enemy.

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