Jelly Roll Rejects Hollywood Politics: Proclaims Jesus Belongs to All at Grammys

Paul Riverbank, 2/2/2026 Jelly Roll’s Grammy speech transcended music, delivering a powerful message of humility, redemption, and faith. Rejecting political commentary, he instead spotlighted hope and second chances—reminding us that sometimes, the most impactful voices are those that uplift rather than divide.

He jumps straight to faith. “First of all, Jesus, I hear you, and I am listening Lord.” Hardly anyone fills a quiet room these days; he did it with a few words that clung to the air. People nearby shift from foot to foot, a sort of hush that’s rare at these things.

But what stands out—a detail you might have missed on television—are the little acknowledgments he directs toward his wife, Bunnie Xo. “I would have never changed my life without you. I’d have ended up dead or in jail.” He lets that land, hands loose around the mic, voice nearly gone. “I’d have killed myself if it wasn't for you and Jesus. I thank you for that.”

On paper, Jelly Roll walked away with three Grammys that night. Best Contemporary Country Album for “Beautifully Broken” among them. Yet his focus, at least in that moment, wasn’t fixed on the glitter of trophies or red-carpet talk. Instead, he reached backwards. “All I had was a Bible this big and a radio the same size and a 6-by-8-foot cell,” he told everyone, recounting the bare-bones reality of prison. No drama in his voice; just a statement of fact. “I believed that music had the power to change my life and God had the power to change my life.”

It’s a different sort of courage to say, in front of millions, that your life’s brokenness shaped you. “There was a time in my life, y’all, that I was broken,” he confessed. There wasn’t much glossing over it. “That’s why I wrote this album. I didn’t think I had a chance. There were days I thought the darkest things. I was a horrible human.” He lingers on that word—horrible—and you can almost hear the clatter of past shackles behind it.

Then there was the pivot, unexpected but deeply sincere. “Jesus is for everybody,” he declared, eyes sweeping the crowd. You could tell he meant it. “Jesus is not owned by one political party. Jesus is not owned by any music label. Jesus is Jesus, and anybody can have a relationship with him. I love you, Lord.” Those seated backstage, even the jaded ones, noticed.

The week before, on Netflix of all places, he’d said the same: “Jesus is for everybody.” It isn’t stagecraft for him. His path from addiction and incarceration to Grammy night is no secret—documented, in fact, when Tennessee’s governor, Bill Lee, issued a full pardon. Lee’s words echoed: “a long road back from drugs and prison through soul-searching, songwriting, and advocacy for second chances.”

Among the swirl of artists making statements that night—some referencing current events, others wading deep into policy—Jelly Roll stood apart in his refusal to go political. A reporter pressed him: any Comment on America’s fractures? “Not really,” he replied, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “My truth is, people shouldn’t care to hear my opinion. I’m a dumb redneck, like, I haven’t watched enough. I didn’t have a phone for 18 months,” he added, nodding to his prison stint.

His honesty felt as unpolished as the story he told. “I’m so disconnected from what’s happening,” he said. “I grew up in a house of, like, insane pandemonium. Like, I didn’t even know politics were real until I was in my mid-20s in jail.” Survival, for him and those he knew, wasn’t an opinion or a debate. “We’re just trying to find a way to survive, man, you know?” It’s not a soundbite. It’s lived fact.

Even so, he’s not closing the door to weighing in. “I’m going through it the next week, and everybody’s going to hear exactly what I have to say about it in the most loud and clear way I’ve ever spoke in my life.” For now, hope is what glued his message together. Any time he strayed close to despair, he circled back: “I love you, Lord.”

Sometimes, in a room full of noise, the strongest presence is the one that chooses humility over spectacle. Jelly Roll reminded us: the most profound statements often come wrapped in gratitude and a belief in second chances. For those who’ve been to the bottom and clawed their way back, his words weren’t just lyrics or a speech. They were a lifeline, tossed gently from one survivor to another.

On Grammy night, the stage bursts with light—to the point of discomfort, almost—but Jelly Roll, real name Jason DeFord, takes it all in stride. When he gets up there, holding his trophy and blinking under the glare, his first words are raw, heavy. “They’re going to try to kick me off here, so just let me try to get this out,” he blurts out, voice trembling a bit, eyes looking everywhere but at the audience.He jumps straight to faith. “First of all, Jesus, I hear you, and I am listening Lord.” Hardly anyone fills a quiet room these days; he did it with a few words that clung to the air. People nearby shift from foot to foot, a sort of hush that’s rare at these things.But what stands out—a detail you might have missed on television—are the little acknowledgments he directs toward his wife, Bunnie Xo. “I would have never changed my life without you. I’d have ended up dead or in jail.” He lets that land, hands loose around the mic, voice nearly gone. “I’d have killed myself if it wasn't for you and Jesus. I thank you for that.”On paper, Jelly Roll walked away with three Grammys that night. Best Contemporary Country Album for “Beautifully Broken” among them. Yet his focus, at least in that moment, wasn’t fixed on the glitter of trophies or red-carpet talk. Instead, he reached backwards. “All I had was a Bible this big and a radio the same size and a 6-by-8-foot cell,” he told everyone, recounting the bare-bones reality of prison. No drama in his voice; just a statement of fact. “I believed that music had the power to change my life and God had the power to change my life.”It’s a different sort of courage to say, in front of millions, that your life’s brokenness shaped you. “There was a time in my life, y’all, that I was broken,” he confessed. There wasn’t much glossing over it. “That’s why I wrote this album. I didn’t think I had a chance. There were days I thought the darkest things. I was a horrible human.” He lingers on that word—horrible—and you can almost hear the clatter of past shackles behind it.Then there was the pivot, unexpected but deeply sincere. “Jesus is for everybody,” he declared, eyes sweeping the crowd. You could tell he meant it. “Jesus is not owned by one political party. Jesus is not owned by any music label. Jesus is Jesus, and anybody can have a relationship with him. I love you, Lord.” Those seated backstage, even the jaded ones, noticed.The week before, on Netflix of all places, he’d said the same: “Jesus is for everybody.” It isn’t stagecraft for him. His path from addiction and incarceration to Grammy night is no secret—documented, in fact, when Tennessee’s governor, Bill Lee, issued a full pardon. Lee’s words echoed: “a long road back from drugs and prison through soul-searching, songwriting, and advocacy for second chances.”Among the swirl of artists making statements that night—some referencing current events, others wading deep into policy—Jelly Roll stood apart in his refusal to go political. A reporter pressed him: any Comment on America’s fractures? “Not really,” he replied, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “My truth is, people shouldn’t care to hear my opinion. I’m a dumb redneck, like, I haven’t watched enough. I didn’t have a phone for 18 months,” he added, nodding to his prison stint.His honesty felt as unpolished as the story he told. “I’m so disconnected from what’s happening,” he said. “I grew up in a house of, like, insane pandemonium. Like, I didn’t even know politics were real until I was in my mid-20s in jail.” Survival, for him and those he knew, wasn’t an opinion or a debate. “We’re just trying to find a way to survive, man, you know?” It’s not a soundbite. It’s lived fact.Even so, he’s not closing the door to weighing in. “I’m going through it the next week, and everybody’s going to hear exactly what I have to say about it in the most loud and clear way I’ve ever spoke in my life.” For now, hope is what glued his message together. Any time he strayed close to despair, he circled back: “I love you, Lord.”Sometimes, in a room full of noise, the strongest presence is the one that chooses humility over spectacle. Jelly Roll reminded us: the most profound statements often come wrapped in gratitude and a belief in second chances. For those who’ve been to the bottom and clawed their way back, his words weren’t just lyrics or a speech. They were a lifeline, tossed gently from one survivor to another.