For Eric Church, Kris Kristofferson wasn’t just an influence.
He was the reason he stayed in Nashville.
In a recent interview reflecting on his career — especially around the release of Evangeline vs. The Machine — Church opened up about just how deeply Kristofferson shaped both his songwriting and his life. But the most unforgettable moment wasn’t on a stage.
It was a Sunday morning.
Back in 2015, Church had just driven through the night after playing what he described as a “crappy place” in Illinois. He rolled into his driveway around 6 a.m., exhausted. That’s when his wife casually dropped the news:
“Kris and Lisa are coming over for lunch.”
“Kris and Lisa who?” Church asked.
“The Kristoffersons.”
Suddenly, sleep wasn’t an option.
Church admitted he was “nervous as hell,” watching the clock tick toward lunchtime. And then the car pulled up. Kris Kristofferson — one of the greatest songwriters of all time — stepped out.
Inside, it was simple. BLTs for lunch. Casual conversation. Church offered tea. Diet Coke. Nothing landed.
So he asked, “You want a beer?”
Kristofferson did.
Church grabbed two Miller Lites. When he handed over a second one, Kristofferson delivered the iconic opening line from “Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”:
“The beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad, so I had one more for dessert.”
Church sat there stunned.
“This is not happening,” he thought.
It wasn’t just a cool moment. It was surreal — like stepping inside a song that had shaped his life.
But Kristofferson’s impact on Church went far deeper than a Sunday beer.
Years earlier, when Church was a struggling songwriter in Nashville, rejection had nearly broken him. After yet another failed publishing meeting — one where he was bluntly told to “go back where you’re from” — Church got in his car ready to quit. He had already decided: one more “no,” and he was heading back to North Carolina.
Then a song came on the stereo.
“To Beat the Devil.”
Originally recorded by Kristofferson in 1970, the song tells the story of a down-and-out songwriter on the verge of giving up. The lyrics mirrored exactly what Church was living through in that moment. It felt personal. Prophetic.
Church admits he got drunk that night.
But he stayed one more day.
The very next day, he landed a publishing deal.
He has said plainly: “I’m here because of that man right there.”
Beyond the poetry and mentorship, Church also admired Kristofferson’s humanity — especially moments like 1992, when Kris stood beside Sinéad O’Connor as she was booed at the Bob Dylan anniversary concert and whispered, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
That compassion mattered.
To Church, Kristofferson wasn’t just a master craftsman of words. He was a model of integrity — someone who never chased hits, never bent his voice to trends, and never compromised his beliefs for marketability.
They always say don’t meet your heroes.
For Eric Church, meeting his only confirmed what he already knew.
Kris Kristofferson wasn’t just a legend.
He was the real thing.