Well, howdy there, fellow spiritual hitchhikers.
You're back on the semi -seminary where we tip
our hat to big ideas, savor scripture, and laugh
a little while we learn. I'm your buddy, Pastor
Jim, your guide on this theological road trip
today. We're roaring down Bob Dylan's Highway
61, revisited that legendary blues highway that
soaked in sweat. sorrow, and sacred songs. Before
we hit the blacktop, though, let me paint the
picture. Highway 61 stretches from Dillon's Minnesota
backyard all the way down to the steamy juke
joints of New Orleans. It runs parallel right
along the Mississippi River. It's the corridor
of the Great Migration driven by dreams of a
better life, haunted. by Jim Crow's Shadow. On
this road, this highway, sharecroppers sang sorrow
into the night, blues legends made magic in dim,
cotton -filled hollers, and civil rights foot
soldiers marched for dignity. Dylan pens each
verse right here for a reason. It's not just
telling stories. He's holding up a mirror to
our souls to... America's soul. Using an all
-powerful authoritarian God to shine a spotlight
on the way we use power. So, grab your coffee,
settle in, and let's cruise right into verse
one where Abraham meets the divine drill sergeant
right out there on that blues highway. Hey, I'll
see you at the end of the road. So, after a raucous
instrumental intro, Dylan enters with, God said
to Abraham, kill me a son. Abe says, man, you
must be putting me on. They have a back and forth
there. Eventually, God tells Abraham where he
wants this killing done, out on Highway 61. Dylan's
first verse isn't about warm, fuzzy comfort.
It's about raw authority. He crafts a God who
demands unquestioning obedience, then points
Abraham to carry it out on Highway 61. In Genesis
22 and 2, we read, take your son, sacrifice him
there as a burnt offering. But here, God doesn't
offer mercy. In Dylan's version, God only offers
commands, the back and forth. Abe says, what?
God says run, paints a deity whose power crushes
human agency. Placing this exchange out on Highway
61, a road stamped with the weight of Jim Crow,
where black families risked everything for freedom,
dramatizes the imbalance of power. Highway 61
carried sharecroppers, blues musicians, and civil
rights marchers who lived under laws. They didn't
make. Dylan in the song satirizes a God of absolute
compliance, reflecting upon us, showing us how
our authority figures, whether divine or governmental,
use blind obedience to subjugate the marginalized
and the oppressed of our society. Just as laws
on the highway once controlled bodies and opportunities,
Dylan's God wields divine fiat to illustrate
how unchecked power often leads directly to society's
sins, oppression, fear, dehumanization. This
is no call to mercy. It's a flashing siren of
authoritarianism. And the theological sting?
When we lean on a God who demands obedience over
compassion, we echo the very systems that crush
the oppressed. True faith isn't about submitting
to power. It's about standing with the powerless,
reflecting Jesus, who pleaded, I will give you
rest, so don't fear. Now enters Georgia Sam.
Well, Georgia Sam, he had a bloody nose. Welfare
Department, they wouldn't give him no clothes.
He asked poor Howard, where can I go? Howard
said, there's only one place I know. Oh, Howard
pointed with his gun and said, that way down
Highway 61. Poor Howard here is Sheriff Howard.
Now let's meet Georgia Sam, a hardworking, soul
-beaten, down -by -the -very -system -sworn -to
-lift -him -up kind of guy, his bloody nose isn't
just from a street fight, it's the marks of poverty
and neglect. And when the welfare office turns
him away, Dillon shines a spotlight on how bureaucracies
will wield authority like a cudgel against the
vulnerable. In many parts of the Jim Crow South,
sheriffs often would routinely round up vagrants.
Often black sharecroppers or itinerant workers
put them in the back of the squad car and drove
them to the county line and warning them to never
return. His practices memorably depicted the
film Crossroads, where these traveling bluesmen
are branded vagrants and expelled without mercy.
That's exactly what... Sheriff Howard does here.
He uses his gun as a symbol of power, escorting
Sam to Highway 61 and effectively exiling him
from any means of support. Placing Sam's desperation
out on Highway 61 underscores the brutal imbalance
of power. The same road that offers a path to
opportunity and freedom now becomes a boundary
of exclusion. Theologically, this echoes Isaiah
10, the first two verses, where unjust laws and
oppressive decrees are condemned. Dylan's God
may not be in view here, but the song reveals
how earthly powers often masquerading as benevolent
and good institutions, actually become instruments
of divine neglect when they silence mercy. This
oppressive bureaucracy parallels the authoritarian
deity that we found in verse 1. Both demand compliance.
be it God's fiat or government red tape, leaving
the marginalized to fend for themselves. The
gospel calls us to be different, to break down
barriers. We're to break down barriers, like
Paul says in Ephesians, not erect them, and to
embody a higher authority, Christ's authority
of service, not subjugation. Now we turn to Mac's
junkyard of patriotism. Dylan says, Mac the Finger
said to Louis the King, I've got 40 red, white,
and blue shoestrings and a thousand of telephones
that don't ring. Do you know where I can get
rid of these things? Louis the King said, let
me think. Take it down to Highway 61. Here, Mac,
our characters hauling around symbols of hollow
nationalism, red, white, and blue, yet none of
it fits nor rings true. Dylan skewers empty patriotism
and shallow communication. These items are trinkets
that fail to connect people or foster solidarity.
And by dumping them out on Highway 61, Dylan
again ties authority to abandonment, like a commanding
voice telling you to march to your own demise.
The promise of patriotic unity becomes a tool
for subjugation, funneling disenfranchised masses
of people down a road of sorrow and disillusionment.
Scripturally, this echoes Amos chapter 5, 21
through 24, where God rejects hollow ritual.
I hate, I despise, God says, I despise your religious
festivals. But let justice roll on like a river
of righteousness, like a never failing stream.
Max shoestrings and silent phones are festival
trappings without justice. True faith. isn't
waving the flag. It's living out God's justice
and righteousness and community. Now, this is
very quixotic, this section of the song, this
verse. Verse 4 takes a second, so I'm going to
slow down a little bit so we can actually kind
of vibe on what Dylan's trying to say here. In
verse 4, he says, Now the fifth daughter on the
twelfth night told the first father that things
weren't right. My complexion, she said, is much
too white. He said step into the light, but the
second mother was with the seventh son, and now
they're both out on Highway 61. Dylan's now dropping
race into the mix, plain and simple. The daughter's
complaint about her too -white skin hints at
social constructs of identity. When the father
instructs her to step into the light, he's demanding
she face a reality shaped by prejudice. Highway
61, once a migration route, becomes a boundary
where identity is both contested and enforced.
Those with power define who belongs and who is
the other. using law and custom to keep people
in their place. It mirrors the authoritarian
theme using identity as a weapon. Galatians 3
and 28, though, throws a theological wrench in
all of this. There is now neither Jew nor Greek,
for you are all one in Christ Jesus. Dylan's
highway scene exposes how far we've strayed from
that unity, how authorities, both divine and
secular, use arbitrary lines to divide and dominate
us. And our call as the church should be to tear
down walls of hostility, not to bolster them
up with continued laws and prejudice that oppress.
He's rounding the corner now. He says, now the
roving gambler, he was very bored. He was trying
to create a next world war. He found a promoter
who nearly fell off the floor. I've never engaged
in this before. And then he comes up with a solution.
We'll just put up some bleachers out in the sun
and have it all out on Highway 61. Our gambler's
not in it for love. He's bored. He wants chaos,
then sells tickets to the spectacle. Dylan's
critique here of us, of America, we've commodified
violence. We've decided to put a profit margin
on suffering like it's primetime entertainment.
Theologically, this reminds me of Micah chapter
6. Verse 8, what does the Lord require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly
with your God. The gambler violates everyone.
He acts unjustly. He revels in violence, and
he elevates himself above mercy. Playing God
with World War on a roadside stage, he embodies
the extreme of authoritarian power unchecked.
Highway 61, again, is the venue where marginalized
people sought refuge. and now becomes the side
of the world's worst gamble. Dylan's road trip
ends on a warning. If we keep betting people's
lives for sport, history will mark us harshly.
And that, friends... This is how Dillon's Highway
61 Revisited exposes the dark side of authority
from divine mandates to government edicts and
cultural idols. Each verse shows power wielded
to oppress rather than to serve. Yet the gospel
calls us to a different way. One where the greatest
authority is love. The highest law is mercy.
The truest road is the one that leads to justice.
So, next time you're on your own Highway 61,
whatever that highway may be, remember to always
choose the route of compassion, not compliance.
Justice, not judgment. And remember Jesus, who
bent down to wash our feet instead of commanding
us to march. Keep your hearts soft, your eyes
open. and your tires aligned with the truth.
And remember, the greatest authority we answer
to is love. And the richest road that we could
ever travel is one that's paved with both justice
and mercy. Amen. Folks, I hope this trip down
Highway 61 has you thinking. About God's power,
our power, and how they collide on the roads
of history and in our own lives. And next time
you feel pressure to obey without question, ask
yourself, does this bring life or crush it? Does
it echo divine compassion or is it just another
bully's command? Something to think about. Hey.
Thanks for riding shotgun with me today. Keep
the faith. Keep the coffee hot. Keep your soul
tank full of grace. I'm your old buddy, Brother
Jim. This has been the Semi Seminary. And until
next time, y 'all take care and drive with love
in your headlights.