The country singer recently won a Dove Award for his collaboration with Brandon Lake on ‘Hard fought Hallelujah’. But who is the man behind the tattoos - and what is the story behind his Christian faith? Robin Ham finds a messy tale of redemption that makes space for those on the margins
When worship leader Brandon Lake accepted the song of the year award at the GMA Dove Awards for ‘Hard fought hallelujah’, few noticed the trophy itself.
Instead, all eyes were on the man stood beside him: Jelly Roll, the tattooed Nashville music artist whose gritty story and unconventional lifestyle have often raised eyebrows.
As the applause faded and Jelly Roll took the mic, he admitted that he felt out of place. But then, there was a stunning moment. He preached.
“Y’all forgive me…I’m nervous. But I’m here because people visited the least. The world is hearing about Jesus right now like they haven’t heard in generations. But put faith on your feet and feet on your faith. They’ve heard of Jesus…now show ’em Jesus. Go feed the poor, love the broken, visit the prisoners. We’re done talking. It’s time to show them.”
It was rough, honest and utterly disarming. The audience were on their feet.
I’ll admit that I had not even heard of Jelly Roll until very recently. And it wasn’t Christian social media that first drew my attention to him, but a non-Christian dad who’s been coming to our church with his kids. Over food one Sunday, he said: “You ever heard of this country guy, Jelly Roll? He talks about God a lot. I like him.”
That stopped me. For someone still exploring faith, this tattooed rapper-turned-country star had somehow broken through the barriers.
A redemption Story
Born Jason Bradley DeFord in Antioch, Tennessee, a working-class suburb of Nashville, Jelly Roll grew up surrounded by hardship and hymns.
His father was a meat salesman and devoted Methodist. His mother battled addiction and mental-health challenges. Both seem to have shaped his world with equal parts struggle and grace. His unforgettable stage moniker comes from a childhood nickname his mother gave him, saying he was a “chubby kid”.
At times, Christians have not been the most welcoming, inviting of my kind
He’s spoken fondly of early memories filled with gospel choirs, and wearing a What Would Jesus Do? bracelet as a teenager. But by 14, DeFord was selling drugs. By 15, he was behind bars. “I found belonging in the wrong places because I never believed I belonged anywhere else,” he has said.
While he was in prison, he discovered that he’d become a father. It was a moment that changed everything. “I wanted to be someone she could be proud of,” he says, speaking of his daughter, Bailee Ann, now 16.
After his release, Jelly Roll poured his pain into music. Starting in Nashville’s underground rap scene, he gained a following for his raw honesty. Collaborations with Lil Wyte and Struggle Jennings brought regional fame, but little peace.
As he matured, his sound shifted towards country and Southern rock. But the echo of redemption was undeniable. Songs like ‘Save me’ (2020) and ‘Son of a sinner’ (2021) cemented his reputation as a mainstream artist with a message: that grace can reach even those who think they’re beyond it.
His 2023 album Whitsitt Chapel, named after the small Tennessee church he attended as a child, became a number one hit in both the country and rock charts.
Faith beneath the fame
When Bailee Ann chose to be baptised in 2023, her father followed her back into church. “Watching her faith made me want to find mine again,” he says. “I walked in expecting judgement and found love.”
Now he calls his shows “healing experiences” that “feel like church.” Before every performance, he and his band pray together.
That rediscovered grace now runs through his back catalogue - from ‘Need a favour’ (“I only talk to God when I need a favour…”) to the award-winning collaboration with Lake, ‘Hard fought hallelujah’, which he calls “worship music for sinners.”
But it is his breakout hit ‘Son of a sinner’ that best captures the tension between brokenness and belief: “Might pop a pill and smoke and maybe drink / Talk to God and tell Him what I think / At first He’s gonna hate me / But eventually He’ll save me.”
The theology may sometimes seem messy, but the longing is unmistakable.
Jelly Roll is undoubtedly an artist who is searingly frank about his flaws – despite the criticism it may draw from some Christians: “I no longer have a deadly addiction to pain pills or cocaine,” he admits, “but I still smoke a little weed to keep my head straight.”
And he knows the Church hasn’t always known what to do with him, reflecting: “At times, Christians have not been the most welcoming, inviting of my kind.”
Nonetheless, he seems intent on holding space between two worlds for those with stories like his own. He often invites men still serving sentences to join him on stage, not as spectacle, but in solidarity. At his father’s funeral, he noticed that people from both the local church and the local bar attended. “Wouldn’t it be cool to be that guy?” he said. “Someone so loved at a bar and so loved at a church.”
Worship for the wounded
In 2024, close to his 40th birthday, Jelly Roll was invited to be part of the Vatican’s Grace for the World concert in St Peter’s Square. “Not only did I get to perform,” he reflected, “I got to praise, shamelessly, in front of the world.”
His story shows that grace doesn’t always look church-ready before it sings
When a man once written off as a lost cause stands in St Peter’s Square and sings about mercy, it’s hard not to pay attention. His small cross tattoo, just below his right eye, could serve as a summary of his faith - redemption made visible through brokenness.
As such, his testimony seems to be an invitation for others to imagine how God might unexpectedly meet them, too, whatever their circumstances. It’s a living testimony to how the resurrection doesn’t just erase our wounds, but redeems them.
Jelly Roll might never fit the mold of a Christian artist, but that’s precisely the point. His story shows that grace doesn’t always look church-ready before it sings. Even a cracked voice can carry a hallelujah.
