Savvy New Testament readers pay attention when its authors interpret Scripture—the texts that Christians call the “Old Testament.” Why does the author of Hebrews think this passage should be referenced here? Why does Paul use this quotation in a way that seems strange? These questions lead us to deeper appreciation of the Bible’s unity and power.
Although the implications are by no means the same, similar questions can be asked with respect to any artist who references the Christian tradition. Why does this novel include biblical allusions? Why the cruciform figures in this painting? And why is Taylor Swift singing about “rolling the stone” away?
Arguably the most successful artist of our time, Taylor Swift has produced a corpus full of Christian imagery—with mentions of “burning flames or paradise” (“Style,” 1989) and “falling from grace” (“Don’t Blame Me,” Reputation, and “Castles Crumbling,” Speak Now [Taylor’s Version]). In her songs, “what died didn’t stay dead” (“Marjorie,” Evermore); a suitor calls himself a “Good Samaritan” (“The Manuscript, TTPD); “devils roll the dice” and “angels roll their eyes” (“Cruel Summer,” Lover). In “Soon You’ll Get Better” (Lover), reflecting on her parents’ cancer diagnoses, Swift speaks to their medications: “Holy orange bottles, each night I pray to you.”
Swift’s most recent album is no exception. The Tortured Poets Department narrates breaks with friends and significant others—but perhaps also a “break” with organized religion (see, especially, “But Daddy I Love Him”: “God save the most judgmental creeps / Who say they want what’s best for me / Sanctimoniously performing soliloquies I’ll never see”).
In “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift sings, “Come close I’ll show you heaven / If you’ll be an angel all night.” In “loml,” she calls the man she’s speaking to “Holy Ghost.” Her lyrics cite liquor that anoints (“The Albatross”) and demons that need to be exorcized (“The Black Dog”).
One could argue that words like angel and paradise are simply part of our cultural vocabulary, so quotidian as to be spiritually meaningless. Who hasn’t described a particularly excellent dessert (or a great piece of music, for that matter) as “heavenly”?
But even allusions that don’t explicitly or intentionally refer back to a particular Bible story or verse are worth examining. The questions these references raise are worth asking.
For instance: What does it mean that Christian concepts often appear as romantic metaphors in Taylor Swift’s music? Again and again, Swift defines romantic love as “sacred.” “Holy Ground” (Red) is framed around an idea from Exodus 3:5: “And right there where we stood / Was holy ground.” In “Guilty as Sin?” (TTPD), Swift wonders: “What if the way you hold me / Is actually what’s holy?” In “False God” (Lover), Swift finds “religion in [his] lips”; the “altar is [her] hips.” The two lovers “make confessions” and “[beg] for forgiveness” while drinking wine. This Eucharistic reference is more sophisticated than Swift’s other allusions; confession precedes approaching the table. But—and this is a big “but”—her ascension is not to God, but instead to a transcendent moment with her partner.
Like Swift’s prayers to pill bottles, these images may make us uneasy. The idea that sexual gratification offers a glimpse of something “divine” is a distortion of Christian theology. The sense that sex could be the key to fulfillment obscures the path toward joy in communion with God.
But Swift’s reliance on religious imagery here is worth a second look. We say that America is becoming post-Christian—but Swift, at least, seems to think that religious language is still resonant for her listeners. “Holiness” remains one of the most powerful concepts she can access to impress upon us the seriousness of her feelings. She may be mislocating “sacredness,” but sacredness itself, that sense of being set apart, is still a real category for her and for her fans.
So too are the categories of “sin” and “punishment,” those distinctions between heaven and hell, grace and the Fall, that she so often draws upon in her work. In “The Prophecy” (TTPD), for example, she refers to Genesis 3:
And it was written
I got cursed like Eve got bitten
Oh, was it punishment?
Like our foremother Eve, Swift perceives herself as cursed—perhaps even persecuted. Thus, another set of her references, drawn from the Gospels, inspires another question: How does Taylor Swift connect to the story of Jesus?
Elsewhere on TTPD, speaking to a former partner, Swift sings, “I would’ve died for your sins” (“The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived”; see also “False God”). Out of context, this line might seem offensive. How dare Swift imply that she can atone for our transgressions! But her intention isn’t to imply that she’s the Messiah. Her self-sacrifice ends in tragedy, not resurrection. She’s expressing the extent of her devotion, however foolish.
I don’t think Swift has a savior complex. But I do think she identifies with the pain and suffering of Jesus, even seeing herself at the mercy of mobs. From “Castles Crumbling”:
People look at me like I’m a monster
Now they’re screaming at the palace front gates, used to chant my name
Now they’re screaming that they hate me
Never wanted you to hate me
In this possible allusion to the triumphal entry, we hear Swift’s warning: Sure, one day they’re crying out “Hosanna” or belting “Love Story,” but it doesn’t last. “What if I roll the stone away? / They’re gonna crucify me anyway,” she laments on “Guilty as Sin.” She, like Jesus, couldn’t do anything (even perform miracles!)without being criticized.
Similar themes appear in “Cassandra” (TTPD). Swift draws upon the Greek mythology of the titular character, even as her lyrics call to mind the story of the woman (allegedly) caught in adultery: “When the first stone’s thrown, they’re screaming / In the streets, there’s a raging riot.” The accused woman’s story paired with Cassandra’s (who was assaulted and later murdered) converge in a narrative that we know all too well: A gifted woman is disregarded, exploited, then deemed “the problem.” Swift’s decision to reference a story in which Jesus provides hard-won empathy to an abused woman is meaningful. This is good theology; Jesus stands with us in our pain.
Throughout her work, Swift uses the New Testament, and the story of Jesus in particular, to understand her own experiences of public suffering. In this, she provides a model to Christians in their own difficult seasons. We too must “fix our eyes on Jesus” (Heb. 12:2, CEB). That said, “righteous” suffering, as Christians understand it, results from injustice, from a dedication to the gospel. Swift does considerable advocacy work; her music gives language to many in pain. But she is by no means grounding that work in a commitment to God.
This raises one more question: How, then, should Christians interact with the language of our faith that appears in the Corpus Swifticum?
It’s worth remembering that Taylor Swift is writing poetry. She isn’t literally praying to pill bottles. She uses figurative images to communicate what is sacred to her, what merits devotion, what is transcendent and powerful. This is theology in a broad sense—insofar as the concepts of worship and holiness are properly connected with God—though I don’t think Swift is consciously articulating her beliefs through these lyrics. For all that she wears on her sleeve, and in spite of a song like “But Daddy, I Love Him,” that card now stays close to her chest.
Even so, whether she realizes it or not, Swift becomes a biblical interpreter when she engages with the rolled stone and Eve’s punishment, an altar and the Holy Ghost. We have to take seriously the indirect communication that appears in her references. What we see when we take them seriously is that Miss Americana herself often misuses and misapplies Scripture; her lyrics often reflect misunderstandings of God.
Even so, Swift sees many things quite clearly. Many of her songs reflect the value of friendship and the beauty of creation. She calls for justice and offers the oppressed a voice. She gives acceptance to young women battered by harmful messages about their bodies and their societal worth—messages that have too often come from the church.
So to answer Swift’s question, “Who’s afraid of little old me?” Not me. And I encourage you not to be either. No, every Taylor Swift lyric is not holy. But many of her lyrics offer something valuable—not least a glimpse of God from another vantage point.
Madison N. Pierce is an associate professor of New Testament at Western Theological Seminary and the author of Divine Discourse in the Epistle to the Hebrews.
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