(NO SPOILERS)
For better or for worse, we humans struggle with remembering. It takes time and quite a bit of effort to commit things to memory; whether it be someone’s name, a birthday, the function of the mitochondria... We all have things that we can’t seem to make stick.
But those pop lyrics you heard in Walmart the other day? Yeah, those aren’t going anywhere.
I've been thinking about this quite a bit since my exploration of Epic the Musical in our last article. Something about this independent production has gripped Gen Z's imagination—and not merely because of its themes of home, glory, and identity that we discussed previously. There's something equally powerful happening its form, through the very medium Jorge Rivera-Herrans chose to tell his story: Music.
Epic understands something that much of modern Christian media seems to have forgotten: Music isn’t just pretty packaging for a message. It’s the entire shipping company that got it to you in the first place. Before you receive the package, there is an entire series of events that affects the perception and overall experience of what you got. And by design, there is going to be more “stuff” in the package than what you consciously ordered. Shipping companies provide bubble wrap and a box to protect the package. But in music, a clever line or a carefully crafted earworm will be more than enough to get their point across.
Music is a way of training the heart to love what it should love. But more recently, it's been training the heart to love what it shouldn’t. And ultimately when everything hits the fan and the dust settles... Christians are to blame.
Music works on us at a level deeper than rational thought can imagine. It bypasses our defenses and speaks to parts of us that mere words often cannot reach. We dance when the beat is catchy. We cry when the lyrics resonate with us. And that warm nostalgic feeling we get from certain songs is something that few other mediums can accomplish. Music engages body, brain, and soul.
This is not accidental. We were designed this way.
The Psalms aren't just devotional poetry—they're songs. Israel was commanded not just to know God's works, but to sing them.
When they crossed the Red Sea, Miriam and the women picked up tambourines and started singing. They were singing and dancing, rejoicing of the Lord’s kindness to them and the justice done to Pharaoh and his army, (Exodus 15:20-21).
Saul started to be wary of David after hearing the women sing “Saul struck down his thousands and David his ten-thousands!” (1 Samuel 18:6-8).
Jehoshaphat’s army was led by the choir singin “Praise the Lord,
For His mercy endures forever!”. And while they did so the Lord destroyed their enemies from before them, (2 Chronicles 20: 20-24)
Scripture is filled with musical notation, with commands to use instruments, and sing skillfully to the Lord, with entire books meant for doing so. The early church didn't just discuss theology—they sang it. And they did this because music doesn't just communicate truth or a lack thereof —it writes it upon the tablet of the heart.
This is what makes Epic so fascinating as a cultural artifact. Jorge Rivera-Herrans isn't just telling a story with music tacked on. He's using the musical form itself to disciple the listener's affections.
Epic deploys musical motifs that evolve as characters develop. Themes are introduced, then recontextualized, then resolved in ways that make you feel the character's journey. The reprises aren't just repetition—they're revelation. When you hear a melody you recognize in a new context, your soul makes connections your mind might miss.
There's a restraint and trust that Epic has in itself that most Christian media lacks. It trusts the medium to do the work. It doesn't insult the intelligence or emotional capabilities of its audience. In fact, it expands both. There are so many hidden, but purposeful easter eggs, layers and themes in each song that allows for a different experience every time you listen.
Epic has hard moments and difficult subjects to discuss. But rather than cowering in fear at the idea of rejection from its audience, it leans into these difficulties for what they are: difficulties. That’s what’s really at the heart of Epic. It’s a series of difficulties that Odysseus and his comrades must endure. And it brings you along on that journey not just of feeling them, but more importantly overcoming them.
All of these things are portrayed with a technical grace on Jorge’s part. The layering of voices at certain times and in certain numbers creates a musical picture of community or internal conflict. The shifts between musical styles mirror the protagonist's emotional and spiritual state as well as the nature of the challenges he must overcome. And sometimes, the strategic use of silence speaks volumes more than any chorus can.
This isn't just artistic showmanship. This is discipleship through beauty. This is training the soul's affections through melody, harmony, and rhythm. And whether it be for good or for ill, it’s definitely working.
Too often, Christian media seems terrified of its own message. While Epic confidently weaves its themes into compelling art that respects its audience's intelligence, productions like PureFlix take the most powerful story ever told and neuter it with cheap sentimentality and ham-fisted messaging. It's tragic—we possess the ultimate narrative of redemption, yet present it through art so repulsively cheesy that even believers cringe.
We've somehow convinced ourselves that "clarity" demands sacrificing beauty, that "reaching people" requires spelling out every spiritual implication in neon letters. We prioritize explicit statements over implicit formation, intellectual agreement over heartfelt connection. And we wonder why our art doesn't travel beyond our own echo chambers.
But this is a profound mistake. In Scripture, craft and beauty aren't decoration—they're essential to truth-telling. When God commanded the building of the tabernacle, He didn't just specify function. He called craftsmen filled with His Spirit to create beauty worthy of His presence. The medium mattered as much as the message.
Beauty in worship isn't optional. It's obedience.
Consider how many of your theological convictions were formed not just through sermons or books, but through hymns and worship songs you've sung hundreds of times. The melodies taught your memory. The harmonies trained your affections. The musical structure itself—verse, chorus, bridge, resolution—formed your understanding of how God's story works.
Beauty is a weapon in the hands of truth. A melody can breach defenses that arguments cannot. A well-crafted song can plant seeds that a sermon might not. This isn't manipulation—it's understanding how God made us to receive truth.
If secular art like Epic is forming souls through beauty, the Church needs to stop ceding that territory. We need to recover the understanding that form matters—that how we say things shapes what people actually receive. That beauty isn't just nice; it's necessary.
This doesn't mean Christian art needs to hide its faith to be effective. But it does mean we need to trust the power of beauty, craft, and artistic restraint to do formative work. We need creators who understand that discipleship happens through the ear as much as through the mind—that melody trains the memory and beauty trains the heart.
The false gospels of our age aren't just proclaimed—they're sung. They're embedded in beautiful, compelling art that forms the affections. If we want to counter them effectively, we need more than arguments. We need songs. We need beauty. We need art that doesn't just tell the truth, but helps people love the truth.
Epic the Musical shows us what's possible when creators take both message and medium seriously. The challenge for Christian creators isn't just to baptize its themes, but to recover the understanding that beauty isn't optional in truth-telling. It's essential.
Because melody trains the memory. Beauty trains the heart. And if the Church won't wield both—someone else will.
