Pardoned by GOP Governor, Jelly Roll Declares: “Jesus Belongs to No Party”

Paul Riverbank, 2/2/2026 At the Grammys, Jelly Roll’s moving speech championed redemption and inclusivity, spotlighting his journey from prison to pardon and personal transformation. His message—faith transcends politics and is open to all—resonates in these divided times, offering hope and a testament to second chances.

There’s no need to guess about the man’s faith. He puts it front and center, never sidestepping the fractured pieces of a past that would make others wince. As the air still trembled from that opening ovation, DeFord didn’t bask; he carved a space for candor. “There was a time in my life I was broken,” he confessed. His words hung, heavy. “I wrote this album when I was sure there was no shot for me. If you’d known what I was capable of back then—well, I didn’t think much of me either.” You could hear his breath catch, see the glint in his eyes, the kind that comes after burying too many hopes.

“Beautifully Broken” was never a marketing slogan. This album he coaxed out of shadows—now etched in history as the first recipient of the Grammy’s “Best Contemporary Country Album”—was Therapy, not just art. Years behind cold cell bars, flanked by a Bible that outweighed most dictionaries and a radio that hummed the world’s indifference, left a mark on a man. He’s the first to admit it: “Music could change my life, but God—He’s the only thing big enough to truly rewrite the story.”

But it wasn’t just elegy and history he offered up that night. Sweeping a tattooed hand across stage, he took aim at something thornier than industry politics: “Jesus is for everybody. Not just for one side, one label, one camp. You can’t copyright Him. If you need Him—He’s there. Doesn’t matter how you got here.” The simplicity caught people off-guard in an era where faith is currency in campaigns and headlines; DeFord seemed determined to spend his differently.

He’s carried this message far afield. Days before the Grammys, same words—on Netflix, too. Over and over: “Jesus is for everybody.” It felt less like a sermon, more like removing barriers people had quietly built.

The weight of his story isn’t metaphorical. Since 2022, nearly 300 pounds melted away—more than many people will ever carry, let alone lose. His transformation hasn’t been a glossy before-and-after spread. Instead, it’s been mornings groggy with discipline, food tracking logs scribbled in buses, and sweat-soaked shirts exchanged on the road. “It took all I had to unlearn cravings that started when I was a kid,” he said with a half-smile, “and once I got that snowball rolling, the avalanche came.” This isn’t a man shy about the cost: temptation, old habits, shortcuts like injections (“not for me, too scared of what comes with it—but hey, if it works for you, I respect that”).

If this sounds like redemption, it’s because it is—but not the sanitized, one-moment-and-done version America sometimes likes to sell. He talks about his full pardon from Tennessee—signed just a few months before the awards, the ink barely dry on a life outgrown. The governor, Republican Bill Lee, didn’t just turn a blind eye; he saw contrition. Songwriting, public advocacy, the ugly truth told and retold—that’s what earned a second start, not a rewrite of history.

But maybe the most human victories are small: shaving for the first time in 20 years, chasing his kids on the basketball court. His wife, Bunnie Xo, watches him rediscover versions of himself that he’d written off decades ago.

Hope, though. That’s what echoes, long after the trophy’s spine-chilling heft is forgotten. Standing at that microphone, he reached even further: “This one’s for those who came to this country hoping for something better, who believed in the promise that hard work could make you part of the story.” Not just for prisoners made free or the felled given another run—he flung the net wide, to immigrant kids and anyone who doubts second chances are real.

From concrete floors to sold-out arenas, from addiction to apology, Jelly Roll isn’t just another comeback. He is a stubborn insistence that being undone isn’t the same as being finished. And as the gold statuette glinted under the lights, his last words rang out easy as breath: “Jesus is for everybody.” No bouncer at the door. No secret code. Just an open invitation, at last, to the crowd and every wandering soul listening in.

Under the dazzling glare of Grammy night, Jelly Roll—Jason DeFord before the stage lights and spotlights found him—stood with arms stretched wide, letting applause wash over scars both seen and unseen. The first thing out of his mouth wasn’t the usual industry platitude. Instead, a quiet, almost hesitant gratitude: “First, Jesus—I hear you, Lord, and I’m listening.”There’s no need to guess about the man’s faith. He puts it front and center, never sidestepping the fractured pieces of a past that would make others wince. As the air still trembled from that opening ovation, DeFord didn’t bask; he carved a space for candor. “There was a time in my life I was broken,” he confessed. His words hung, heavy. “I wrote this album when I was sure there was no shot for me. If you’d known what I was capable of back then—well, I didn’t think much of me either.” You could hear his breath catch, see the glint in his eyes, the kind that comes after burying too many hopes.“Beautifully Broken” was never a marketing slogan. This album he coaxed out of shadows—now etched in history as the first recipient of the Grammy’s “Best Contemporary Country Album”—was Therapy, not just art. Years behind cold cell bars, flanked by a Bible that outweighed most dictionaries and a radio that hummed the world’s indifference, left a mark on a man. He’s the first to admit it: “Music could change my life, but God—He’s the only thing big enough to truly rewrite the story.”But it wasn’t just elegy and history he offered up that night. Sweeping a tattooed hand across stage, he took aim at something thornier than industry politics: “Jesus is for everybody. Not just for one side, one label, one camp. You can’t copyright Him. If you need Him—He’s there. Doesn’t matter how you got here.” The simplicity caught people off-guard in an era where faith is currency in campaigns and headlines; DeFord seemed determined to spend his differently.He’s carried this message far afield. Days before the Grammys, same words—on Netflix, too. Over and over: “Jesus is for everybody.” It felt less like a sermon, more like removing barriers people had quietly built.The weight of his story isn’t metaphorical. Since 2022, nearly 300 pounds melted away—more than many people will ever carry, let alone lose. His transformation hasn’t been a glossy before-and-after spread. Instead, it’s been mornings groggy with discipline, food tracking logs scribbled in buses, and sweat-soaked shirts exchanged on the road. “It took all I had to unlearn cravings that started when I was a kid,” he said with a half-smile, “and once I got that snowball rolling, the avalanche came.” This isn’t a man shy about the cost: temptation, old habits, shortcuts like injections (“not for me, too scared of what comes with it—but hey, if it works for you, I respect that”).If this sounds like redemption, it’s because it is—but not the sanitized, one-moment-and-done version America sometimes likes to sell. He talks about his full pardon from Tennessee—signed just a few months before the awards, the ink barely dry on a life outgrown. The governor, Republican Bill Lee, didn’t just turn a blind eye; he saw contrition. Songwriting, public advocacy, the ugly truth told and retold—that’s what earned a second start, not a rewrite of history.But maybe the most human victories are small: shaving for the first time in 20 years, chasing his kids on the basketball court. His wife, Bunnie Xo, watches him rediscover versions of himself that he’d written off decades ago.Hope, though. That’s what echoes, long after the trophy’s spine-chilling heft is forgotten. Standing at that microphone, he reached even further: “This one’s for those who came to this country hoping for something better, who believed in the promise that hard work could make you part of the story.” Not just for prisoners made free or the felled given another run—he flung the net wide, to immigrant kids and anyone who doubts second chances are real.From concrete floors to sold-out arenas, from addiction to apology, Jelly Roll isn’t just another comeback. He is a stubborn insistence that being undone isn’t the same as being finished. And as the gold statuette glinted under the lights, his last words rang out easy as breath: “Jesus is for everybody.” No bouncer at the door. No secret code. Just an open invitation, at last, to the crowd and every wandering soul listening in.