I turned on the TPUSA Halftime Show hoping to see some wholesome family entertainment. The first three performers met my expectations; then came Kid Rock.
He blasted unto the stage in an uncontrolled frenzy, running around making wild gestures. He was screaming some unintelligible words that happily I could not understand. The lip-sync was terrible. It was clear, there was no talent here, just electronic amplification of noise. When suddenly it ended, mercifully quicker than expected, I was left me confused.
What followed was a beautiful acoustic nocturne on violin and cello. It was graceful, expressive; a beautiful serenade that could not possibly be of more contrast than the chaos. My mind began to reel, my worst fears materialized. The wholesome alternative to the NFL trash had become inept and amateurish.
Then came the unexpected; a new artist appeared. A singer I never heard of before; Robert Ritchie. He looked like me, wore the same cloths I was wearing and sang words I could understand. The song was uplifting, encouraging the audience to do the beautiful things in life, “…’til you can’t.” It was a special moment that ended the show.
I’m not the fastest boat in the regatta; it took me some time to register what I has seen. A man’s testimony, a life journey through chaos, through grace, ending in beauty and redemption.
But even later I understood something deeper still. If there had been a thousand speeches by as many artists and celebrities, all trying to honor and pay tribute to Charlie Kirk, they could not have matched what had just been presented. It was perhaps the most moving experience I have ever seen. Robert Ritchie has become something very, very special through the grace he now preaches.
If you missed it, go find it.
He blasted unto the stage in an uncontrolled frenzy, running around making wild gestures. He was screaming some unintelligible words that happily I could not understand. The lip-sync was terrible. It was clear, there was no talent here, just electronic amplification of noise. When suddenly it ended, mercifully quicker than expected, I was left me confused.
What followed was a beautiful acoustic nocturne on violin and cello. It was graceful, expressive; a beautiful serenade that could not possibly be of more contrast than the chaos. My mind began to reel, my worst fears materialized. The wholesome alternative to the NFL trash had become inept and amateurish.
Then came the unexpected; a new artist appeared. A singer I never heard of before; Robert Ritchie. He looked like me, wore the same cloths I was wearing and sang words I could understand. The song was uplifting, encouraging the audience to do the beautiful things in life, “…’til you can’t.” It was a special moment that ended the show.
I’m not the fastest boat in the regatta; it took me some time to register what I has seen. A man’s testimony, a life journey through chaos, through grace, ending in beauty and redemption.
But even later I understood something deeper still. If there had been a thousand speeches by as many artists and celebrities, all trying to honor and pay tribute to Charlie Kirk, they could not have matched what had just been presented. It was perhaps the most moving experience I have ever seen. Robert Ritchie has become something very, very special through the grace he now preaches.
If you missed it, go find it.
