by Gabrielle “Ellie” Werner

Music is huge to me; I am the embodiment of that Hendrix quote, “Music is my religion.” In it, I have faith—faith to move mountains. I believe it will always be there.  I cannot picture any plane of existence where it does not exist.

I cannot live without it. I want to be with it after I die and be surrounded by its warmth and love for eternity.

Music is never exclusive. It lets everyone partake of its awesomeness, no matter where in the world they are. It is the connection of all humanity.

Its creation could come from just one hand dancing over some keys, a voice in the night or fingers flicking a guitar chord, but it grows. It’s nurtured into existence and purpose.  Music is alive. There is never a time in which it will die.

The existence of music needs no resurrection to prove itself.

I have reached a place in my life where I don’t care which church I attend.  Whether it is the Church of Rock, Country, Punk, Classical, Oldies,  Jazz,  Blues,  Dance, Trance,  Hip-Hop,  Soul or the bloody Church of Metal and Polka, it doesn’t matter. That’s why music is my religion.

Pass out CDs like Bibles. Take a song’s lyrics and preach about them. The congregation says “Amen” either way (unless it’s “Poker Face” or a similar song; I can’t really picture that being a sermon in the near future without giggling).  If everyone had music for a religion, I’m pretty sure religious wars would not exist.

The songs of the church I grew up in are forever engrained in my mind. The main reason I attended camp was the music. Some of my church family took me to camp yearly. One year on our way to camp—the summer of my tenth year of life—we went in this grocery store in Kingman, Kan. My eyes beheld a magazine. It was Guitar World with Bruce Springsteen on the cover. I picked it up from the rack, flipped through it and saw the tabs section. I had never played guitar before, but I knew I could play this song. I just knew. After the singing at camp (I couldn’t remember anything else about camp but the singing), I got the magazine and I played.

“This,” I said, “is what God is.”

This was the concrete evidence I needed.  This was the reason to go to church and camp. Songs from my church are etched in me because these songs elevated the spirit more than any Bible verse or sermon ever could.

Music doesn’t just exist. It is existence.

God exists. God is here.  And God is music. You can’t touch music, but it’s there.  It’s in the air around you emanating from speakers or coming off musicians (the preachers of music), entering your very being, moving you in some way or another.

Music is truth. It’s the truth of life, the truth of every individual. In each individual’s choice of music and songs, one can better understand the individual. Even if some are deaf, music still exists for them. There can be no movement without some rhythmic sound being made.

It isn’t just a creation; it’s the creator itself (hell, without music, a majority of us wouldn’t have been created).

There is no world without music.

Music is the definition of life.