'Jesus For Everybody': Jelly Roll Defies Culture Wars on Grammy Stage

Paul Riverbank, 2/2/2026 Jelly Roll’s Grammy win marks a powerful testament to redemption and faith, as he rejects partisan ownership of belief and proves personal transformation possible—offering not just music, but hope, honesty, and inspiration on a national stage.

Before he even thanked his wife or his team, DeFord did something unusual: he looked up, his eyes narrowing with a sort of private conviction. “First of all, Jesus, I hear you, and I am listening Lord,” he said, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. It sounded less like a rehearsed line and more like something he truly needed to say—almost as if he wasn’t on the Grammys stage but at a place of worship.

Those who know the arc of his story—those who remember the mugshots, the jail stints, the struggles with weight and addiction—saw a familiar glimmer there: relief and perhaps a dash of disbelief. Years back, DeFord was known mainly for his past: run-ins, regrets, and the nickname Jelly Roll, a jab from childhood that stuck with him much longer than any lesson in school. If you’d asked him then, Grammy dreams would have seemed ludicrous. But transformation, it seems, rarely follows a script.

On a night meant for music, he made a different sort of declaration. Clutching his gold trophy for Best Contemporary Country Album, he paused. “Jesus is for everybody. Jesus is not owned by one political party. Jesus is not owned by no music label. Jesus is Jesus, and anybody can have a relationship with him. I love you, Lord.” Those words hit, bouncing around the auditorium, applause coming in waves. For a moment, the usually-glitzy room felt like a much smaller, humbler place.

DeFord’s wife, Bunnie Xo, stood nearby—glamorous and beaming, but always grounded. On the red carpet, she recounted their first meeting. She said she’d told him, “You’re special,” the first night they crossed paths, and she wasn’t just flattering the man in front of cameras. The admiration appeared mutual; he often admits that behind everything—the tours, the transformation—her constant encouragement has pushed him farther than sheer will ever did.

Look at the facts: at one point, he weighed more than 550 pounds. Years of stress-eating, chain-smoking, and the kind of hard-living that most folks barely survive had left their marks. By 2022, he’d come to a crossroads. As he explained recently on Bunnie’s own aptly named Dumb Blonde Podcast, “I didn’t become successful because of my weight. I became successful in spite of it.”

What followed wasn’t some neatly packaged wellness journey. Instead, it was messy, practical—a string of decisions made over late-night meals and punishing hotel-room weigh-ins. He ditched the late-night pizza, swapped sodas for water, and got his crew onboard with walking, cold plunges, and honest conversations. Where he once joked his exercise consisted of “walking to the fridge,” now there were bike rides, daily movement, and a diet heavy on protein, courtesy of Chef Ian Larios.

Many celebrities rely on weight-loss injections for rapid results. Not Jelly Roll. He’s talked about his caution around drugs, especially worried about acid reflux eroding his vocal cords. “As a singer, few things scare me more than acid reflux,” he admitted on a podcast, describing nights spent jolting awake, gulping antacid, his mind racing already to the next show. So he did it his way—slowly, stubbornly.

Despite the headlines, DeFord doesn’t paper over his past. He’ll talk about his rap sheet, the Tennessee state pardon, and the years spent inside, where he clung to a small Bible and a broken radio. Governor Bill Lee, who signed the pardon last year, called it a “long road back from drugs and prison.” For DeFord, those wounds are still fresh; he says redemption is a day-by-day project, not a headline.

When Men’s Health called him up for a cover shoot, it was equal parts surreal and hilarious—he and Bunnie joked that maybe now he could finally shave the towering beard he’s hidden behind for decades. She teased him on Instagram: “We want to see that jawline, right, ladies?” He cracked back, “We’re trying to decide if a face lift might help.” Even his self-deprecating humor feels earned.

There are still patches of darkness. Addiction doesn’t just evaporate; regret lingers in quiet moments. But faith, he insists, has returned him to himself. “I’ve gotten closer to God. I’ve gotten closer to myself. I’m a better father,” he told Extra, sharing a smile about coaching his son’s basketball team, marveling at having the stamina not just to show up, but to actually keep up. He laughed that his energy has even revived a “sex drive of a 17-year-old”—a detail he shares more like a buddy than a preacher.

On Sunday, as the Grammy lights faded, it was clear the applause wasn’t just for an album. People were standing for a man who’s lived hard, changed course, and thrown open the doors for anyone else slogging through their own transformation. He could have played it safe, stuck to thanking labels and teams, but instead he offered up something riskier: the idea that faith—and second chances—belong to everyone, and that nobody is defined by their worst day, not forever.

That’s Jelly Roll’s gift to the crowd, to his fans, and perhaps, above all, to himself.

Jelly Roll’s real name is Jason DeFord, but on a night that most of America was watching the Grammys, he was simply himself—a man who’s lived several lifetimes, finally given his moment at the microphone. Somehow, standing there in a tux, Grammy in hand, he looked both grateful and a little stunned, as if he was still catching up to this version of himself.Before he even thanked his wife or his team, DeFord did something unusual: he looked up, his eyes narrowing with a sort of private conviction. “First of all, Jesus, I hear you, and I am listening Lord,” he said, his voice carrying over the silent crowd. It sounded less like a rehearsed line and more like something he truly needed to say—almost as if he wasn’t on the Grammys stage but at a place of worship.Those who know the arc of his story—those who remember the mugshots, the jail stints, the struggles with weight and addiction—saw a familiar glimmer there: relief and perhaps a dash of disbelief. Years back, DeFord was known mainly for his past: run-ins, regrets, and the nickname Jelly Roll, a jab from childhood that stuck with him much longer than any lesson in school. If you’d asked him then, Grammy dreams would have seemed ludicrous. But transformation, it seems, rarely follows a script.On a night meant for music, he made a different sort of declaration. Clutching his gold trophy for Best Contemporary Country Album, he paused. “Jesus is for everybody. Jesus is not owned by one political party. Jesus is not owned by no music label. Jesus is Jesus, and anybody can have a relationship with him. I love you, Lord.” Those words hit, bouncing around the auditorium, applause coming in waves. For a moment, the usually-glitzy room felt like a much smaller, humbler place.DeFord’s wife, Bunnie Xo, stood nearby—glamorous and beaming, but always grounded. On the red carpet, she recounted their first meeting. She said she’d told him, “You’re special,” the first night they crossed paths, and she wasn’t just flattering the man in front of cameras. The admiration appeared mutual; he often admits that behind everything—the tours, the transformation—her constant encouragement has pushed him farther than sheer will ever did.Look at the facts: at one point, he weighed more than 550 pounds. Years of stress-eating, chain-smoking, and the kind of hard-living that most folks barely survive had left their marks. By 2022, he’d come to a crossroads. As he explained recently on Bunnie’s own aptly named Dumb Blonde Podcast, “I didn’t become successful because of my weight. I became successful in spite of it.”What followed wasn’t some neatly packaged wellness journey. Instead, it was messy, practical—a string of decisions made over late-night meals and punishing hotel-room weigh-ins. He ditched the late-night pizza, swapped sodas for water, and got his crew onboard with walking, cold plunges, and honest conversations. Where he once joked his exercise consisted of “walking to the fridge,” now there were bike rides, daily movement, and a diet heavy on protein, courtesy of Chef Ian Larios.Many celebrities rely on weight-loss injections for rapid results. Not Jelly Roll. He’s talked about his caution around drugs, especially worried about acid reflux eroding his vocal cords. “As a singer, few things scare me more than acid reflux,” he admitted on a podcast, describing nights spent jolting awake, gulping antacid, his mind racing already to the next show. So he did it his way—slowly, stubbornly.Despite the headlines, DeFord doesn’t paper over his past. He’ll talk about his rap sheet, the Tennessee state pardon, and the years spent inside, where he clung to a small Bible and a broken radio. Governor Bill Lee, who signed the pardon last year, called it a “long road back from drugs and prison.” For DeFord, those wounds are still fresh; he says redemption is a day-by-day project, not a headline.When Men’s Health called him up for a cover shoot, it was equal parts surreal and hilarious—he and Bunnie joked that maybe now he could finally shave the towering beard he’s hidden behind for decades. She teased him on Instagram: “We want to see that jawline, right, ladies?” He cracked back, “We’re trying to decide if a face lift might help.” Even his self-deprecating humor feels earned.There are still patches of darkness. Addiction doesn’t just evaporate; regret lingers in quiet moments. But faith, he insists, has returned him to himself. “I’ve gotten closer to God. I’ve gotten closer to myself. I’m a better father,” he told Extra, sharing a smile about coaching his son’s basketball team, marveling at having the stamina not just to show up, but to actually keep up. He laughed that his energy has even revived a “sex drive of a 17-year-old”—a detail he shares more like a buddy than a preacher.On Sunday, as the Grammy lights faded, it was clear the applause wasn’t just for an album. People were standing for a man who’s lived hard, changed course, and thrown open the doors for anyone else slogging through their own transformation. He could have played it safe, stuck to thanking labels and teams, but instead he offered up something riskier: the idea that faith—and second chances—belong to everyone, and that nobody is defined by their worst day, not forever.That’s Jelly Roll’s gift to the crowd, to his fans, and perhaps, above all, to himself.