I love music.

I listen to it constantly. I’m moved by it. I can tell you which songs stir something deep in me and which ones fall flat. I can even talk about music intelligently—genres, artists, lyrics, meaning.

But here’s the truth: I am not a musician.

I don’t speak the language of music. I can’t sit down at an instrument and create anything. Music does not live in my body in the way it lives in the body of someone who has practiced scales, learned rhythm, struggled with timing, and slowly internalized the grammar of sound.

And for a long time, I think this is exactly how I related to the gospel.

Loving the Gospel vs. Knowing the Gospel

Many of us love the gospel.

We’ve listened to sermons.
We’ve read Scripture.
We’ve memorized verses.
We’ve grown up in church.
We know the theology.
We can explain substitutionary atonement, grace, forgiveness, redemption.

Intellectually, we appreciate the gospel the way a non-musician appreciates music.

But appreciation is not the same thing as embodiment.

If the gospel were truly known—in the way a musician knows music—then something would be different. Not perfect. Not painless. But different.

There would be more rest.
More freedom.
More trust.
More capacity to stay present.
More ability to release control.

And when those things are missing, we may respond with anger or guilt:

“What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I trust God more?”

That question assumes the problem is moral failure.

What if the problem is simply that we’ve never learned the language?

The Gospel Is Not Just Information—It’s a Language that needs to live in the body

No one becomes a musician by loving music alone.

You become a musician by:

  • Practicing daily
  • Repeating basic movements
  • Letting the language move from your head into your hands
  • Allowing your nervous system to learn what your mind already knows

You don’t try harder to be musical.
You train.

In the same way, the gospel is not primarily something to be admired or agreed with.
It is something to be practiced. It is something we live out of.

This is where many sincere, faithful people get stuck.

They believe all the right things:

  • God is good
  • God is loving
  • God is in control
  • There is no condemnation
  • “Come to me all who are weary”

And yet, their bodies are tense.
Their chests are tight.
Their minds are racing.
They feel responsible for everything.
They live braced for impact.

That’s not hypocrisy.
That’s the language of legalism embodied.

Why the Body Matters

Trauma, stress, and early life influences and experiences shape us at a bodily level.

You can believe God is trustworthy and still have a nervous system that learned—very early—that:

  • “If it’s going to be, it’s up to me.”
  • “Letting go is dangerous.”
  • “Rest equals irresponsibility.”
  • “Trust leads to disappointment.”

Those beliefs don’t live primarily in thoughts.
They live in muscle tension, breath restriction, and hyper-vigilance.

So when we hear the gospel only as a set of truths to affirm, it can actually increase guilt:

“I know this is true… so why can’t I live it?”

That’s like scolding someone for not playing piano beautifully when they’ve never practiced scales.

Practicing the Gospel Like a Musician Practices Music

What if learning the gospel looked less like trying to trust and more like training the system?

Like:

  • Practicing noticing when your body is bracing
  • Learning how to stay present instead of dissociating or over-controlling
  • Gently turning toward weariness instead of analyzing it away
  • Letting God meet you in sensation, not just in thought
  • Repeating simple, grounding practices daily—not perfectly, but consistently

This is not about adding pressure.
It’s about repetition with kindness.

A musician doesn’t practice to prove they are worthy of music.
They practice because they love it—and because they want it to live inside them.

From Appreciation to Fluency

Many of us appreciate the gospel deeply.
But appreciation alone doesn’t produce peace.

Fluency does.

Fluency is when:

  • “God is with me” is felt in the chest, not just stated in the mind
  • “I don’t have to carry this alone” shows up as a deeper exhale
  • “There is no condemnation” actually softens shame instead of arguing with it

That kind of knowing takes time.
It takes practice.
It takes patience.
And it takes enormous gentleness with ourselves.

But it is learnable.

The gospel is not just something to believe.
It is a language to be learned.
A rhythm to be practiced.
A way of being that slowly—very slowly—moves from the head into the body.

And when it does, something remarkable happens:

You don’t just love the gospel anymore.

You begin to live it.

Disclosure: Drafted with assistance from ChatGPT from my original reflections; final edits are mine.