Campfire series 3 of 3: When 37,000 People all Sang a Prayer at a Rock Concert.

Back in the 80s, I went to a Who concert at Alpine Valley near Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

It was incredible.

The Who puts on a great show. I was one of 37,000 screaming fans packed into that venue in the middle of the summer. The air was filled with all the smells that seemed to come with a rock concert in the 1980s—the scent of gravel parking lot, stale beer, and the unmistakable aroma of marijuana drifting through the crowd. It was loud, a little wild, and completely unforgettable.

To this day, it's probably one of the best concerts I have ever attended.

One song in particular stayed with me long after the concert ended.

Love, Reign O'er Me.

It took me years to realize that what I was hearing sounded an awful lot like one man's prayer.

Only Roger Daltrey's voice can penetrate some of the stoniest hearts when he sings:

"Only love can bring the rain that makes you yearn for the sky.

Only love can bring the rain that falls like tears from on high.

Love, reign o'er me."

What made that moment even more unforgettable was what happened next.

Right as Roger Daltrey launched into the chorus, the skies opened up and it started pouring rain.

As a college student, I was fortunate enough—or maybe unfortunate enough, depending on how you look at it—not to have the money for seats under the overhang. So there I stood, soaked to the bone with thousands of other fans as Daltrey sang:

"Only love can bring the rain..."

And the rain came.

"Only love can bring the rain that falls like tears from on high..."

And it kept coming.

I've attended a lot of concerts over the years, but I've never forgotten that moment.

Thirty-seven thousand people standing in the rain while one man cried out:

"Love, reign o'er me."

Looking back on it now, it felt almost mystical.

I don't know what it was about that song.

Maybe it was the lyrics.

Maybe it was the way he sang it with that gravelly voice.

But years later, I began to wonder if this was more than a man singing to his beloved.

What if he was singing through his lover to the ultimate source of Love itself?

What if he was singing to God?

The older I get, the more I notice that many of the songs we love are really prayers disguised as music.

Not church prayers.

Not formal prayers.

Human prayers.

Prayers of longing.

Prayers of regret.

Prayers of hope.

Prayers of gratitude.

Prayers we don't even realize we're praying.

Think about it.

How many songs contain phrases like:

"Don't leave me."

"Help me."

"Stay with me."

"I need you."

"I can't make it without you."

Those aren't just lyrics.

Those are cries from the human heart.

And that may explain why concerts can feel almost spiritual at times.

For a few minutes, thousands of people become united by a single voice and a single longing.

At Alpine Valley, Roger Daltrey stood on stage and sang, "Love, reign o'er me."

Thirty-seven thousand of us sang it back.

Think about that.

One man offered the words.

Thirty-seven thousand people repeated them.

Whether we realized it or not, we were all participating in the same prayer.

It's not all that different from what happens in church.

A priest or pastor offers a message from the pulpit and every now and then he's looking for that "Amen" from the congregation. Not because he needs affirmation, but because something he said connected with the hearts of the people listening.

Concerts can work the same way.

A singer stands on stage and puts words to something we all feel but struggle to express.

Then the crowd answers back.

We get so wrapped up in the music, the moment, and the message that we can't help ourselves. We want to stand up, sing along, raise our hands, and join in.

That response doesn't come from our heads.

It comes from somewhere much deeper.

It comes from the deepest reaches of the human heart.

That idea has fascinated me ever since.

In fact, it's one of the reasons I eventually wrote A Theology of Bohemian Rhapsody.

Because the more I listened to music, the more I became convinced that some of the world's greatest songs aren't merely entertainment.

They are confessions.

They are questions.

They are cries for mercy.

They are prayers.

And perhaps the reason they resonate so deeply is because they express something we all carry inside us—a desire for a love bigger than ourselves.

If you've never seen the live version of Love, Reign O'er Me, do yourself a favor and look it up on YouTube.

Turn down the lights, put the phone away, and give it your full attention.

Don't just listen to it—let it wash over you.

Let the melody and the lyrics sink in.

Roger Daltrey doesn't simply sing the song; he seems to pull it from somewhere deep inside himself.

By the time he's finished, you may find yourself wondering what I eventually wondered years later:

Was that just a rock song?

Or was it a prayer?

Maybe that's the hidden power of music.

Sometimes a songwriter gives words to a longing we couldn't express ourselves.

Sometimes an entire stadium joins in.

And sometimes, without even realizing it, thousands of people end up praying together.

A love that can bring the rain.

A love that falls from on high.

A love that truly reigns over us all.