The Rockstar Who Refused to Hide His Faith
(ANALYSIS) Bono — real name Paul David Hewson — is one of the few living Irishmen who can fill stadiums across continents and still be ridiculed like he’s your cousin showing off at a family wedding. In Ireland, we love to hate him. It’s practically a sport. The sneering, the eye rolls, the jokes about messiah complexes — it’s all there.
But that hatred, or the performance of it, says more about us than it does about him. Because behind the designer shades, there’s a man.
A real man.
Someone who’s suffered, who lost his mother young, who had a complicated, combative relationship with his father, who married his teenage sweetheart and never strayed, even as the chaos of rock and roll life gave him every excuse to.
And through it all, he never lost his faith. Not in some vague spiritual sense — but in God. A Protestant in a Catholic-dominated country, Bono’s belief has always been somewhat of an anomaly. But it wasn’t for show; it was personal. It resided within him. You can hear it echo through songs such as “Wake Up Dead Man.”
These aren’t songs trying to sound profound — they’re songs written by someone who’s wrestled with doubt, grief and grace in the dead of night.
Growing up in Dublin when Bono did, it would’ve been impossible not to breathe in religion. It was in the air, in the schools, in the silence around death, in the guilt no one ever named. But where others ran from it — or hardened against it — Bono carried it with him. Not the institution, but the hunger for meaning it left behind.
And somewhere along the way, the Bible became more than just a cultural artifact. It became his language. Not a book he quoted to score points, but one he absorbed — Psalms, Job, Corinthians — lines of fury and hope that bled into his songwriting.
He never treated Scripture like a press release. He actually read it, wrestled with it, quoted it and built songs around it. Not cherry-picked verses for interviews, but full-on immersion. For him, Scripture wasn’t wallpaper. It was fuel. A living, breathing thing he carried into the chaos of fame and never put down.
Bono’s relationship with God was never decorative. It wasn’t branding. It wasn’t some back-pocket identity to whip out on stage between songs or tweet during a crisis. Unlike the newer crop of artists who use God as a political accessory — something to slap on a trucker hat or drop in a slogan — Bono portrayed a faith that always felt real. Not flawless or flashy. Private when it needed to be. Public when it mattered.
You see a different kind of God talk now — packaged, weaponized, extremely shallow. Artists like Kid Rock and others in the political celebrity sphere use religion as a prop in a culture war. With Bono, it was never that. His faith wasn’t for attention.
In a recent interview with late-night host Jimmy Kimmel, the Irishman spoke candidly about his belief in Christ, grace, mercy and how his faith has always kept him grounded. For some, that might seem odd. After all, Bono’s name is often tossed around as shorthand for ego, for rock star self-importance. But that’s the stage. The voice, the presence, the swagger — now that’s performance. Offstage, it’s something else entirely. Ask anyone back home or elsewhere who has actually met him, and they’ll tell you the same thing. He’s kind, present and unpretentious. He's very sincere.
And “Stories of Surrender,” Bono’s new one-man show — part memoir, part music, part reckoning, makes that sincerity impossible to ignore. Adapted from his book “Surrender: 40 Songs, One Story,” it’s a stripped-back performance that trades the stadium for something far more intimate: Just the musician, a few instruments and a lifetime laid bare. He moves through stories of pain, ambition, marriage, faith and failure with honesty that’s sharp, sometimes self-deprecating and often quietly devastating.
There are no pyrotechnics. No U2 bravado. Just memory, melody and meaning. He revisits the songs that made him, not as hits, but as milestones —fragments of a spiritual and emotional journey that still isn’t finished. “Stories of Surrender” isn’t a shrine to the singer. Quite the opposite, in fact. It's about surrender in the truest sense: to love, to God, to the mess of being human. And somehow, in the quiet, Bono feels more powerful than ever.
It’s easy to sneer at U2's frontman — plenty do. But most people only know the caricature, not the man. They don’t see the hurt he carries, the belief that steadies him, or the fragility behind the sunglasses.
Bono has never been backwards in coming forward, especially when it comes to God. He doesn’t mumble about “spiritual energy” or dodge the name of Jesus. He says it straight: “The Son of God.” He talks about Christ carrying his shame, not because it sounds poetic, but because he believes it. Deep down.
Bono’s faith isn’t necessarily neat or polished, but it's real. His devotion to a higher power was never some midlife rebrand. For decades, Bono's conviction has been tested, stretched, and mocked — and yet, through it all, and perhaps because of it all, it not only survived; it thrived.
John Mac Ghlionn is a researcher and essayist. He covers psychology and social relations. His writing has appeared in places such as UnHerd, The US Sun and The Spectator World.