If I Had the World to Give

or how uncle john's band was my gateway drug

I used to think the Grateful Dead were dangerous, scary, and definitely not for good Christian boys like me.

The psychedelic tie-dye bears and skeletons the fringe kids at my John Hughes high school wore, somehow convinced me that if I listened too long - or at all - I’d succumb to a swirling portal of pot smoke, patchouli, and poor decisions and somehow end up shooting heroin under a bridge somewhere.

But I was super into Jesus in high school, so… naturally, I listened.

I had a Greatest Hits cassette that I’d listen to in the car with Heather Frantz. The highlight of every drive was playing Uncle John’s Band again and again. Partly because it was catchy. But mostly because it said “goddamn”. Usually we’d make a show of turning down the volume knob at that point in the song, but sometimes we’d “forget” and that felt thrillingly subversive.

We thought we were rebels. We didn’t know (yet) that we were basically in church.

For the longest time, the Dead lived in that adolescent category of things I was probably not allowed to like. I lumped them in with sex, and drugs, and well … rock and roll. I didn’t fear them because I knew they were trouble. I feared them because I didn’t know anything at all about them.

Fast forward thirty-five years: Now when I’m driving, I listen to the Grateful Dead Channel on SiriusXM almost exclusively. Their catalog plays like a familiar language I now understand. It’s not just the music. It’s also the interviews. The stories of “getting on the bus” and the general vibe that everything is going to be alright.

Last month, I went to see The Grateful Dead Movie in IMAX. It’s as close as I’ll ever get - or need to get - to seeing them perform live. (I’ve briefly entertained trying to see Dead & Company at The Sphere in Las Vegas, but I think I’m gonna sit that one out.)

It wasn’t just the spectacle (though there’s plenty of that) but the intimacy. The joy. The palpable devotion of a crowd completely at ease with itself. The camera lingers on faces: old, young, stoned, straight, joyful, lost, found. And Jerry? He doesn’t come off like a rock god. He looks like a tired, tender uncle who just wants you to have a good time.

There was none of the the chaos I’d once imagined. It was actually more like the way I’d hope church could be.

There’s a Grateful Dead song I bet you’ve never heard. You probably haven’t even heard of it: If I Had the World to Give. Written by Garcia and Robert Hunter, it’s a slow, haunting love ballad that the Dead only played live four times.

That’s it. Four times over the course of 2,318 live shows.

The song is beautiful — unabashedly romantic, unapologetically sincere. It doesn’t sound like the Dead at all … except that it totally does. It’s reverent. Intimate. Almost too soft for a crowd. Maybe that’s why it disappeared.

I can’t stop listening to it.

And here’s the thing I can’t shake:

I don’t think teenage me could have heard that song. Even if it had come on the radio while Heather and I were out dodging damnation, I’d have skipped it. It’s not dangerous. Nor catchy. It doesn’t swear.

It was too vulnerable.

Vulnerability is maybe the scariest thing of all when you’re 17 and full of fear and fervor and a half-developed prefrontal cortex.

If I had the world to give / I’d give it to you / Long as you live...would you let it fall, or hold it all in your arms?

That’s not just a question. It’s a plea. There’s no wink. No clever guitar riff to undercut the emotion. Just a slow, honest invitation. Followed by a promise…

But I will give what love I have to give / I will give what love I have to give / I will give what love I have to give, long as I live.

Four times. There’s power in rarity. And some songs only show up when you’re ready. Ready to appreciate that love and truth and surrender and grace aren’t dangerous at all.

They’re sacred.

And if you’re lucky, you catch one of them four times in your whole life.

These days, I’m not too sure what I think about God, but I know what I think about that song. It feels like church. It’s prayer.
It’s the kind of hymn that doesn’t need a building. Just a decent pair of headphones, or a stretch of quiet road, and a heart that’s a little more vulnerable than it used to be.

I still smile when I hear Uncle John’s Band. And I still cherish the rebel in me, but I no longer reach for the volume knob.

Because it’s not the music that’s dangerous. It’s us. And it turns out, we don’t need to fear bears and skeletons. We just need to grow up a bit.

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