Hey, welcome back here to the Semi -Seminarian.
On Sundays, we like to do an episode we call
Theology in Three Chords. A late night revival
where the gospel shows up in bar rooms, back
roads, and ballads. If you're tuning in with
the hum of a dashboard speaker or the quiet of
an empty kitchen, this one is going to be for
you. This one's not your grandma's Sunday school,
but it might be your grandpa's AM radio theology
crackling through the dark with a little bit
of dust and a whole lot of grace. Before we dive
in, if this kind of storytelling hits home, if
it helps you breathe a little easier, Think a
little deeper. Hey, go ahead and hit that like
button. Leave us a review. Share the episode
with someone who needs a gentle word and a strong
song. It helps more than you know, and it keeps
this little revival tent on the road. Now, tonight's
song. Cody Cannon is no stranger to red dirt
confessionals. He's the kind of songwriter who
doesn't flinch when he tells you the truth, but
he also doesn't shove it down your throat. And
his song, Easy, Well, it ain't gospel music,
but it might be the good news. Doesn't offer
answers, doesn't try to clean you up. It just
pulls up a chair beside your mess and says, yeah,
me too. This one's for the weary who want to
believe but can't bear one more altar call that
sounds like a sales pitch. For folks worn thin
by institutions that demand loyalty but withhold
compassion. with a backslider. Never stop believing,
just stop pretending. And the preacher, he ain't
looking for a ladder to climb, but a porch to
build. Welcome home. Easy, ain't trying to fix
anything. It just lays down everything on the
table and says, here it is. It's not Sunday morning
clean, it's Tuesday afternoon tired. Smells more
like the break room at a mechanic's shop than
a cathedral, but if you listen close, you might
just hear something sacred whispering through
the dust. Let's walk through it together, and
I'll see you on the other side. So, in typical
Cody fashion, he comes out swinging. Every now
and then, it gets to me. Maybe it's religion,
the moaning, and the bitching. The lying and
stealing and the cheating politicians coming
right at me through the satellite feed. You ever
get so tired that your bones buzz? That's where
this song opens, not with a hook, but with a
sigh. And the first thing to come out, not traffic,
not bills, not backache, religion. But not the
kind with potlucks and hymnals, the kind that
sounds like static, loud, angry, always asking
for something. The kind that promises heaven
but delivers shame. The kind where everybody's
got the right answer and nobody's got time to
listen. The kind that leaves you feeling lonelier
after the sermon than before it. And you know
what I'm talking about. Channel flipping. Fear
slinging, power grabbing form of religion that
leaves you wondering if God's even paying attention
or if he's just quit answering calls from this
zip code. And then politics, same poison, different
bottle. The talking heads, the noise, the churn,
the so -called truth served with a smirk. They
call it news, but it feels like a fire alarm
that never stops. Everybody's screaming, nobody
helping. And Cody doesn't rant. He doesn't resolve.
He just names it. He says it out loud. The weariness
that builds up in the soul when the sacred becomes
twisted. The leaders are lying. And the people
with the loudest microphones don't seem to care
about the folks they're shouting at. And then
he whispers it. Make this day easy on me. It's
not a prayer you'll find embroidered on a pillow.
It's the kind you mutter to the ceiling fan.
And sitting there in your undershirt holding
a cup of gas station coffee at 547 in the morning.
It's not polished. It's not proper. But man,
is it real. It's the kind of prayer that doesn't
care if the theology is tight. As long as it
helps you breathe. And then he says, I was taking
my time down on Portland Street. The man he said
had it rough wanted my stuff. Minimum wage wasn't
nearly enough. Take my money and both of my shoes.
If it makes this day easy on you. Now the lens
tilts from the static on the screen to the stranger
on the sidewalk. It's one thing to be tired of
the system. It's another to see the people it
chews up. First, does it scream justice? It just
lives it quietly, unceremoniously. You're walking
down the street. Minding your own business, and
here comes someone asking, not for your opinion,
not for a verse of scripture, but for help. It
might not be pretty, certainly is inconvenient,
but it's real. And the easy move is to keep walking,
but something in you says, maybe this guy just
needs a break. There's no judgment in this lyric,
no parsing of who deserves what, no asking of
how he got there, just one tired man recognizing
another and choosing mercy. That's the thing
about grace. It doesn't require a resume. Sometimes
it shows up in the form of a pair of shoes. Sometimes
it comes in the form of a yes when you've got
every single reason to say no. That line, if
it makes this day easy on you, that's holy. Because
it doesn't come from a place of pity. It comes
from a place of solidarity. Maybe you've been
there too. Maybe you've known what it feels like
to need help and not know how to ask. And when
someone gives it to you freely, that's church.
Straight and honest. The good Lord above, bloody
knuckles, and a woman to love. Say you'll do
it when you say you'll do it. But it ain't ever
gonna be free. But it can be easy. This chorus,
it's not just the heart of the song. It's the
creed of a certain kind of person. Of a certain
kind of life. Straight and honest. Man, that's
the whole deal right there. You say what you
mean. You show up when you're supposed to. You
don't hide behind fine print or fake smiles.
You do it right, even when it doesn't shine.
And when Cody tips his hat to the good Lord above,
it's not a Sunday morning roll call. It's a nod,
a recognition, a truth too deep for a bumper
sticker, a whisper that even if church folks
got it twisted, there's still a God worth nodding
to. One who sees the bloody knuckles, the holding
on love, and says, you know what? That counts.
And that line about bloody knuckles and a woman
to love, it ain't romantic in a greeting card
way. It's more like I'm still standing. I'm still
fighting. And someone sees me. Someone still
holds my name with tenderness, and that is sacred.
Say you'll do it when you say you'll do it. That's
covenant. That's character. That's what you hope
your kids will say about you. It's the kind of
theology you live, not preach. And then the thesis.
It ain't ever going to be free, but it can be
easy. That line hits like gospel, not because
it's doctrine. but because it's true. It won't
cost you nothing, but it might cost you everything.
But it doesn't have to be bitter. It doesn't
have to be lonely. It doesn't have to be full
of fear and shame. It can be heavy, but light.
Hard, but not cruel. Some things you just carry
better when you carry them with love. What's
better than one? What's better is two. Come on,
take my hand, got a plan. It's all laid out,
what you're waiting on, man. Trust in me and
I'll trust in you. Because easy is the easiest
thing to do. And now it turns toward invitation.
It's not a preacher's plea, it's a friend's nudge.
What's better than one? Two. That's not theology,
that's truck stop wisdom, and it's good. Take
my hand. That's not an altar call. That's survival.
That's community. That's saying I've been on
the edge too. And I'm not letting you go over.
So quiet courage and trust in me and I'll trust
in you. It's not naive. It's not utopian. It's
vulnerable, which means it's real. Because somewhere
in the dust and the diesel of this life, the
soul still wants to believe that trust. It's
possible. Someone might actually mean it when
they say they'll be there. And if you could stop
bracing for impact, maybe you can start breathing
again. And then comes the line that sounds so
simple, it breaks you. Easy is the easiest thing
to do. But we make it so hard. Because we've
been taught that only the hard stuff counts.
That somehow grace must be earned. That love
must be proven. That ease is weakness. And maybe,
just maybe, the most radical thing you can do
is stop fighting love. It can be easy. It can
be easy. Song doesn't end with a bang. It ends
with a benediction, like a lullaby for the tired
parts of you. Like a cold rag across your forehead
on a hard day. Like someone sitting next to you
saying nothing but saying everything. It can
be easy. Not painless. Not perfect. But not cruel.
Doesn't have to be all performance. It doesn't
have to be all penance. It doesn't have to be
walking on eggshells around a God you hope doesn't
notice your mess. Because sometimes, sometimes
mercy is just in the showing up. Letting yourself
be seen. Taking the shoes off your feet and handing
them to someone who needs them more than you
do. That's grace. No dogma required. Easy. Isn't
a hymn, but it's holy. It tells the truth. It
names the ache. It offers a little light without
pretending the darkness ain't real. And it's
not about escaping life. It's about living it
with your eyes open and your hands open too.
And maybe that's the most sacred thing we can
do. Choose easy where we can. Choose grace when
it's possible. Choose trust, even if it scares
us. Maybe the real altar is the moment you say,
if it makes this day easier on you, take what
you need. Maybe that's gospel enough for today.
So maybe that's the good news in all of this.
But the sacred doesn't always come wrapped in
stained glass and choir robes. Sometimes it shows
up with scuffed boots, sore shoulders, and a
song like Cody Canada's Easy playing low in the
background. A song that doesn't offer redemption
as a bargain, just lays out like a warm plate
and says, take what you need. If anything in
this episode gave you a moment of peace, a flicker
of hope, reminded you of someone you love, do
me a favor, share it, hit subscribe, leave a
review. You don't have to write a novel. Just
say, hey, this meant something to me. It helps
keep the porch light on for the next traveler
passing by. And if you're carrying something
heavy tonight, grief, doubt, guilt, just plain
exhaustion, I hope you'll remember this. It ain't
ever going to be free. But it can be easy. It's
not a shortcut. It's just a different way to
walk down the road. This has been Theology in
Three Chords, where the gospel sounds like a
gravel road and hope still knows how to hum along.
Thanks for pulling up a chair, and I will see
you next time.