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| Lyrics from the song Ripple |
This blog is unlike any other I’ve written. It was born several days ago while Keith and I were driving to the store and the song Gomorrah by the Jerry Garcia Band song came on the radio. Something about that moment stirred my heart, and the words for this blog began to form.
I didn’t even have a title when I started writing. It came later—after the whole piece poured out. When I finally landed on it, I knew it was right. It’s a lyric from the song — Franklin’s Tower. Keep reading, and you’ll see why. I hope you find this interesting and it stirs something in your heart too 🫶🏼✌🏼
🙏🏼🎶💫🎶🙏🏼
There is a quiet kind of faith that doesn’t shout answers.
It doesn’t rush resolution.
It walks. It wanders. It listens.
Some of the most honest faith I’ve encountered hasn’t come from sermons or formulas—but from stories, songs, and moments that leave room for mystery. The kind that admit we don’t always know where we’re going, but we keep moving anyway.
For Keith and I, those songs and stories often include the Grateful Dead and the Jerry Garcia Band—music steeped in longing, humility, and wonder. Much of its spiritual depth comes from the lyrics of Robert Hunter, whose words feel less like conclusions and more like invitations.
Robert Hunter captured this beautifully in Ripple when he wrote, “If I knew the way, I would take you home.”
That line has stayed with me because it feels less like a lyric and more like a prayer. It names something deeply human—and deeply biblical. We want certainty. We want directions. We want the whole map laid out before us. But Scripture reminds us again and again that faith is not about knowing the way; it’s about trusting the Guide.
Another Ripple lyric came to mind as I wrote this:
“Reach out your hand if your cup be empty if your cup is full, may it be again.”
Psalm 23 tells us our cup overflows—but only after walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Overflow comes after emptiness. Before the fountain, there is thirst.
Scripture reminds us that God has never promised to show us the whole journey at once—only to illuminate the step directly in front of us.
“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.” (Psalm 119:105)
Not a floodlight.
Not the entire road.
Just enough light for the next step.
And sometimes that light shows up in unexpected places. As Scarlet Begonias reminds us:
“Once in a while you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”
This same longing echoes in I Shall Be Released, a song Bob Dylan wrote and Jerry Garcia carried with deep tenderness:
“Any day now, I shall be released.”
The words feel like a whisper from a prison cell—whether that prison is physical, emotional, spiritual, or unseen. Like Scripture these lyrics speaks directly into that ache.
“The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me… He has sent Me to proclaim freedom for the captives.” (Isaiah 61:1; Luke 4:18)
Jesus doesn’t shame our captivity. He doesn’t minimize our chains. He names them—and then He opens the door.
Faith doesn’t begins with freedom, but rather with the hope of it.
A quiet trust that deliverance is coming, even if we don’t see how.
In Franklin’s Tower, we hear the mysterious phrase,
“Roll away the dew.”
Dew settles silently overnight, softening the world, blurring edges. And yet, in the Gospels, something else is rolled away at dawn—a stone. Heavy. Sealed. Final.
Then, later in the song we hear the lyric, “May the four winds blow you home again” — and those words always hit me like a quiet promise. No matter how lost or unsure I feel, there’s a sense of being carried—guided by something bigger than myself—toward a place of rest, a place of belonging. It’s a reminder that even when the road is long, even when the path is unclear, we are never truly alone.
“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; He has risen.” (Luke 24:5–6)
Resurrection doesn’t arrive with noise. It comes early. While grief still lingers. While hope feels fragile. Sometimes God rolls away what we thought was permanent—fear, diagnosis, uncertainty, control—and invites us to see life where we assumed there was only an ending.
The song Brokedown Palace sounds like farewell, but Scripture reminds us that rest is not defeat—it’s a promise. “Going home, going home By the waterside I will rest my bones.”
“There remains therefore a rest for the people of God.”
(Hebrews 4:9)
We build palaces out of plans, health, routines, and expectations. When they crumble, we grieve—not just what we lost, but who we thought we were. Yet God does not abandon us in the ruins. He meets us there and calls it holy ground.
Sometimes healing begins when we stop struggling to control it ourselves.
That truth echoes powerfully in Terrapin Station: “His job is to shed light, and not to master.”
Not every biblical song is gentle. Some are meant to wake us up.
Gomorrah, performed by the Jerry Garcia Band, draws from the stark imagery of Genesis—cities consumed because injustice, pride, and hardness of heart were left unchecked. It’s a sobering reminder that Scripture doesn’t only comfort; it confronts.
“Blew the city off the map
Left nothing there but fire
The wife of Lot got turned to salt
'Cause she looked behind her”
These Gomorrah lyrics act as a reminder to me that I can’t look back at my old life, I’m not that person anymore.
Judgment in the Bible is never about cruelty—it’s about mercy interrupted.
God warns before He acts.
He calls before He corrects.
He offers escape before destruction.
Even in the hardest passages, God’s desire is repentance, not ruin.
The Bible is not a collection of stories about perfect people. It’s a record of wanderers, doubters, addicts, outsiders, and the broken—people God refuses to give up on.
The song St. Stephen reminds us that even in suffering, heaven can open.
“Saint Stephen will remain, all he’s lost he shall regain, Seashore washed by the suds and foam, Been here so long, he’s got to calling it home”
And the song Wharf Rat tells the story of someone who has fallen far but still dares to believe that life isn’t over.
“Asked me for a dime, a dime for a cup of coffee I got no dime, but I got some time to hear his story”
“Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” (Isaiah 1:18)
Grace doesn’t erase the past.
It redeems it.
These lyrics from Standing On the Moon “Standing on the moon, but I’d rather be with you.” can be seen as a beautiful expression of longing for God above all else. Even if you had the most incredible, awe-inspiring experience imaginable—like standing on the moon—it still wouldn’t compare to the joy, peace, and fulfillment of being in God’s presence.
Paul reminds us, “Our citizenship is in heaven.” (Philippians 3:20)
That longing isn’t weakness.
It’s remembrance. It’s the soul recognizing where it truly belongs.
Faith doesn’t promise clarity.
It promises presence. Like the Israelites following a pillar of fire, like the disciples leaving their nets, like a song whose meaning unfolds only as it’s played. Faith moves us forward without explaining everything first.
Jesus simply says, “Follow Me.”
He doesn’t say, “Understand first.”
And maybe that’s the invitation.
We walk. We listen. We trust the melody—even when we don’t yet know the destination.
These are just a few of the biblical references woven throughout Grateful Dead and Jerry Garcia Band songs. They’re not hidden so much as they are humbly offered—waiting to be noticed.
When you open your mind and your heart to hearing them, they become almost impossible to miss.
Themes of exile and homecoming. Captivity and release. Judgment and mercy. Death and resurrection. Wandering, repentance, redemption, and grace.
The songs don’t quote Scripture chapters or verses, but they echo it. They carry the same questions, the same longings, the same hope. Like parables set to music, they invite the listener to lean in, to wrestle, to reflect.
Maybe that’s why these songs have endured—truly stood the test of time. Maybe that’s why they meet us differently in each season of life.
Sometimes, truth doesn’t arrive through a pulpit. Sometimes it comes through a melody—heard only when we’re finally quiet enough to listen.
Here’s my invitation to you: go put on some Grateful Dead or Jerry Garcia Band music. Listen with an open heart and an uncluttered mind. Let the lyrics of Robert Hunter, the guitar playing of Jerry Garcia and the band’s rhythm wash over you—not just as songs, but as little lessons in patience, surrender, and wonder. Notice the whispers of truth, the nudges toward faith, the echoes of the journey we all walk. Sometimes, God meets us not in sermons or scriptures alone, but in the spaces between the notes, the pauses in the melody, and the quiet wisdom of a song that has been waiting for us to listen.
Turn it on. Turn your heart toward it. And see where the road—and the music—takes you.
In addition to all of the songs mentioned in this blog here is a list of a few more (of MANY) to get you started:
Brother Esau
Bid You Goodnight
Brothers and Sisters
Knockin on Heavens Door
My Sisters and Brothers
Who Was John
Samson and Delilah
The Promise Land
The Music Never Stopped
Greatest Story Ever Told
Thanks for reading along as I rambled and thanks for being on this wild journey with me ✌🏼🫶🏼
I’ll close this with a verse God put on my heart:
“For we walk by faith, not by sight.”
—2 Corinthians 5:7 (NKJV)
Until next time, keep joy in your hearts. ❤️✨💙
With love and gratitude,
Ali
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