Songs in the Key of Me: Love Train

Reflections on one of the songs that shaped who I was becoming—even when I wasn’t listening closely.

By LONNIE KING

I’m not sure why, at my age, I still feel the need to explain this—but I do. It goes back to the late ’60s and early ’70s when I was a young kid and music was divided by invisible walls.

Back then, you were supposed to “belong” to a genre, and those boundaries weren’t just about sound—they were about race, class, and image. You were either rock or soul, country or pop, and heaven help you if you crossed the lines.

I didn’t look like anyone in The O’Jays’ audience, but their songs still spoke to me. I grew up hiding that side of myself, pretending not to love the styles of music that moved me most. But Love Train broke through that barrier. It was R&B, it was soul, maybe even a little disco—and it was pure joy.

The first time I heard Love Train by The O’Jays, I didn’t have words for what I was feeling. I just knew I wanted to be part of whatever that sound was inviting me into. The melody was irresistible—bright, hopeful, contagious. The lyrics were simple enough for a child to remember:

“People all over the world, join hands, start a love train, love train.”

That invitation sounded like joy itself. It seemed to stretch far beyond anything I’d been taught about what love meant—and maybe that’s why it felt so risky to let myself love it.

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🎵 Watch & Listen

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When Love Came With Conditions

In my fundamentalist home, we were taught that “love” had conditions. It was spiritual, not social. Love was meant for those who believed the same things, prayed the same prayers, voted the same way. Anything broader sounded dangerously close to compromise.

But when I heard Love Train, I felt something my theology couldn’t quite explain. It wasn’t rebellion—it was recognition. Somewhere deep inside, I knew this was closer to the kind of love Jesus actually talked about.

We grew up singing about the love of God—how measureless and deep and strong it was—but it always came wrapped in mystery, as if it could only be expressed through rules we didn’t fully understand. Sometimes that mystery was used as a shield: we had to be “cruel to be kind,” “firm to be caring.” Love, as we were taught it, was something to be earned by conforming to the right beliefs.

That’s why Love Train felt almost dangerous to me as a kid. What was innocent and joyful for the rest of the world—a song about connection and unity—felt like something I had to hide. But I couldn’t un-hear it. The groove, the harmony, the sheer joy of it all—somehow it made love sound simpler, freer, truer than the version I’d been handed in church.

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The Song That Still Preaches

All these years later, that same song still speaks to me. But now, it does so with a hint of sorrow mixed in. Because the world that once seemed ready to board the “love train” feels more divided than ever. I used to think that time and progress would move us closer to the kind of inclusive spirit Love Train celebrated. Instead, it feels like we’ve circled back to the rigid, fearful attitudes I grew up with—only now they’ve gone mainstream.

We’ve traded joy for judgment, unity for tribalism. We draw lines around everything—faith, politics, identity—and call them boundaries when, really, they’re barricades. And yet, every time Love Train plays, I can’t help but believe that the invitation still stands. The rhythm still carries hope. It still whispers, there’s another way to live.

“Tell all the folks in Egypt and Israel too,
Please don’t miss this train at the station,
’Cause if you miss it, I feel sorry, sorry for you.”

That line still stops me. As a child, I didn’t understand the depth of what they were singing—how radical it was to call for unity between enemies, to sing peace in a world that profits from division. But as an adult, I hear it and think: that’s the gospel.

I know it might sound strange, but I believe Love Train is more Christ-like than a lot of the hymns I grew up singing. The message is simple and universal: stop fighting, start loving, get on board. No theology degree required. No doctrinal statement to sign. Just people all over the world, joining hands.

Maybe that’s why this song still gets to me—because it preaches a kind of love that doesn’t need translation. It reminds me that faith, at its truest, was always meant to sound like this.