The Gospel According to Jelly Roll

How a tatted-up country artist preaches grace with his life, his kindness, and his childlike wonder about the love of Jesus

Of all the evidences that support the truth of Easter, one of the most compelling is a changed life. Not merely a life that has improved or matured with age, but one that has been interrupted and reoriented by grace. A life that once bore the marks of grief and loss but now pulses with hope. A life that once was like the walking dead but is now alive in Jesus Christ.7

We can and should examine doctrine, history, and theology. But for many people, it’s not a proposition that makes the gospel persuasive—it’s a person. And for many today, that person is a man we call Jelly Roll.

Born Jason DeFord, Jelly Roll is a husband, father, artist, and follower of Jesus whose life bears the unmistakable imprint of resurrection. His story includes addiction, incarceration, and pain—the kind that leaves permanent scars. But it also includes healing, transformation, and the kind of humility that only comes from having hit bottom, and then been met there and saved by grace. His past holds darkness and his present holds so much light, not in spite of the darkness but precisely because of it. And his posture toward others speaks loudly of the God who makes all things, including us, new.

When we’re watching American Idol—and no, we’re not ashamed of that…we haven’t missed an episode since Kelly Clarkson won in 2002, and I even vote—my wife almost always says the same thing after Jelly Roll offers feedback to a young, often insecure contestant: “I love that man, don’t you?” Every time, I find myself nodding in agreement. His kindness is deeply real, not self-referential or manufactured, and it has a way of disarming you and warming your heart. There’s something about the way he treats people that makes you want to slow down, show up differently, and be a better version of yourself.

Jason’s story, like so many of ours, isn’t linear. It’s not without its regrets or rough edges. But consistently in lyrics, posture, and life, it is unmistakably marked by the grace of God—the kind of grace that brings dead bodies and dead hearts back to life.

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Kindness Formed Through Pain

What softens a person toward others? What makes someone who has walked through some of the darkest parts of the human experience become a person who affirms and builds up others with such warmth and sincerity?

In Jelly Roll’s case, his kindness is not incidental. It’s been forged in the fire of suffering and shame. He’s open about the years he spent in jail, the pain he caused, and the addiction he battled. But he doesn’t use those experiences as excuses, nor does he let them define him and his life’s story. He appeals to them as an on-ramp for empathy. For dignity. For helping others come out of hiding and dare to believe that they, too, have dignity and that they, too, are loved.

He’s even known to coordinate with local prisons to bring inmates out—just for an evening—so they can stand beside him on stage, in front of thousands, and be celebrated. Affirmed. Treated not as liabilities to society, but as image-bearers of God. These are men whose stories have often been reduced to their worst five minutes. But Jelly Roll insists rightly they are so much more. There’s a reason why the Bible tells God’s people not to forget to visit those in prison. As I will share in next week’s essay, God is very much alive behind prison walls.

As Jesus would have us do, Jelly Roll treats these men with the same compassion and respect he once longed for himself. This isn’t sentimentality. It’s theology with skin on. It’s Romans 5:8 come to life: “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

This same spirit shows up in nearly every space Jelly Roll inhabits—including, most recently, on American Idol. Watching him interact with anxious, aspiring artists, offering gentle critique and fierce encouragement, is a picture of grace in real time. He sees people. He dignifies them. He reminds them of their worth, regardless of how they may or may not perform on a stage.

And that is resurrection work.

When we lead with this kind of dignity—especially toward the vulnerable, the insecure, and the overlooked—we mirror the way Jesus interacts with us. We refuse to define people by what they’ve done, where they’ve been, or how they perform. Instead, we see them through the eyes of grace.

Tattoos, Good Therapy, and Healing

Jelly Roll’s appearance is as unforgettable as his presence. His body is covered in tattoos—each one a marker of a chapter in his story. But perhaps the most striking is the cross inked just below his right eye. The face is the most intimate, expressive part of our being—the place we look to understand someone. And there, on the very place we meet his gaze, is the mark of the One who died, rose from the dead, and now sits at the right hand of God.

It’s not a gimmick. It’s a witness.

Jelly Roll doesn’t preach in the traditional sense, but his life quietly proclaims the gospel. He’s publicly and unapologetically a Christian. He often points to Jesus as his source of hope and transformation, both in interviews and in everyday conversation. He speaks freely about his need for therapy and his ongoing commitment to emotional healing. He’s also used his platform to support the work of Miles Adcox and the team at Onsite, helping de-stigmatize mental health care for people who might otherwise keep their pain hidden and isolated.

He tells the truth about his wounds so others might find the courage to face their own.

This is one of the clearest pictures we have of gospel transformation—not the absence of brokenness, but the presence of grace and wonder in the midst of it. Not pretending we have it all together, but pointing to the One who holds us together. That kind of honesty gives people permission to stop pretending. To step out of hiding. To begin to believe that healing is possible.

Our Most Defining Reality

Over the years—especially this past year—I’ve spent a lot of time with high-capacity, high-responsibility leaders: business executives, nonprofit founders, athletes, artists, authors, educators, healers, influencers. And I’ve come to believe that some of the most meaningful gifts we can offer them aren’t more strategies or platforms, as important as those things may be. What leaders and influencers often need most is sincerity. Encouragement. Grace. Reminders that their most defining reality is that they are created and loved by God. In a culture that equates success with output, reach, and visibility, leaders need to be reminded that their deepest value isn’t found in what they build or achieve.

Part of my work with leaders involves asking them to write their own obituaries. What’s remarkable is how little they talk about accomplishments and how much they talk about relationships. Almost all people want to be remembered not for what they did, but for how they loved. How they showed up at home and in friendship. How they listened. How they treated people who couldn’t do anything for them in return.

Watching Jelly Roll, I see that kind of legacy unfolding—not of fame and spotlight, but of substance. Not of grandeur, but of grace.

There’s a reason our hearts warm to him. He reminds us of the kind of person we want to become, and the kind of people we want to be close to. People who show up with gentleness. People who speak the truth about their pain. People who restore dignity to others, especially when the world says they’re not worth the effort. People who don’t define others by their worst moments and seasons.

Jelly Roll also reminds us that the gospel isn’t reserved for the squeaky clean and well-behaved—though it’s for them too, as there’s a kind of pressure that goes with preserving that image. But the gospel is especially for the weary, the worn, the addicted, the ashamed. And the truest evidence of the resurrection isn’t just a stone that was rolled away. It’s also the lives that are being made new—every day, by grace, through faith, for the glory of God.

In a world that often feels cynical, performative, and transactional, people like Jelly Roll stand out. Just by showing up—with humility, childlike wonder, and compassion—he gives us a glimpse of Jesus.

In his lyrics, his posture, and his life, he also invites us to consider how we relate to God and others. How we treat those who are vulnerable. How we speak to the overlooked. How we relate to the lesser versions of ourselves that we used to be and, in our lesser moments, still struggle to overcome.

As another Nashville artist, Andrew Peterson, so beautifully put it:
“Be kind to yourself, because you’ve got to learn to love your enemy too.”