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On a pleasant July evening in western New York, two distinct groups of people file into the open-air amphitheater just up the hill from Lake Chautauqua. The denizens of the Chautauqua Institution—founded in 1874 to train Sunday-school teachers—are overwhelmingly white, elderly, upper middle class, and terminally addicted to learning and the arts. During most nights of the summer season, after a full day of lectures and symposia, Chautauqua offers a performance of some kind at the pavilion—ballet, Chautauqua's own symphony orchestra, or, as on this night, an outside musical group. Residents and visitors are accustomed to wandering in the direction of the pavilion after supper to locate friends and sample the cultural offerings.

The other constituency on this summer evening clearly had been looking forward to tonight's performance, by a band called Jars of Clay, for some time. A group of high-school and college-age students congregated in the orchestra section and, in anticipation of the concert, executed a call-and-response cheer that has become commonplace at Christian music concerts: "We love Je-sus! How about you?" The other side answered: "We love Je-sus, too! How about you?" Some of the older folks, looking up from their books or news papers, seemed a trifle befuddled by this uncharacteristic outburst of religious enthusiasm.

A few minutes after eight the orchestra section began a rhythmic clapping. Machines blew artificial smoke across the stage. The orchestra section rose to its feet, and those in the out lying seats again looked up from their reading. The main event took the stage and opened with "Liquid," the first song on its debut, self-titled album, Jars of Clay. The music was loud, but there was a sweetness here.

This is the one thing,
The one thing that I know.
Blood-stained brow,
He wasn't broken for nothing.
Arms nailed down,
He didn't die for nothing.

As the group moved on to "Tea and Sympathy," a cut from its second album, Much Afraid, the orchestra section swayed back and forth in time to the music, arms upraised and interlocked.

The older folks in the upper reaches of the pavilion weren't so sure, offering only polite applause. A bearded man in his early fifties wadded cotton in his ears to stave off the decibels. An elderly woman left after the second song. "We've heard that nine different presidents have been on this stage," Dan Haseltine, the lead singer, said between songs. "I suppose if you put them all together they could probably rock."

Banter is not Jars of Clay's strong suit. The band members are young, barely older than college age themselves. They have affected something of a grunge look—several of them seem to take pains to convey the impression they have spent more time with a parole officer than a youth pastor—but it appears that they would be just as comfortable in polo shirts or even neckties. The band members met as students at Greenville College, a Free Methodist liberal-arts school in central Illinois, where they majored in something called "Contemporary Christian Music."

In the fall of 1993, Haseltine, Charlie Lowell, Stephen Mason, and Matt Bronleewe collaborated on an original song, "Fade to Grey," for a studio project in a recording class. They performed at a campus hangout, Underground Cafe, and the response emboldened them to work on other musical compositions. When it came time to choose a name, Lowell, the keyboardist, suggested Jars of Clay, from 2 Corinthians 4:7: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us" (NIV).

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November 15 1999, Vol. 43, No. 13