When God Sings Series

1 – The Unthinkable Sound

We sing to God every Sabbath.

We open our hymnals, follow the notes, and hope our voices find the right pitch before the second verse ends.

Singing feels natural to us — after all, that’s what worshippers do.

But Zephaniah flips the page. He says God sings.

That’s not a metaphor. The Hebrew phrase literally means “He exults with a ringing cry.” Picture it:

the Creator of galaxies, the One who spoke light into being,

now singing — over you.

Not in judgment. Not in disappointment.

But in delight.

God doesn’t just listen to our music.

He joins it.

He composes it.

He is it.

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2 – A Song in a Ruined Nation

When Zephaniah wrote those words, Judah was a moral disaster.

The prophets wept, the kings schemed, and the people chased idols made of wood and bronze.

If you read the first two chapters, the music is minor key — corruption, violence, decay.

And then, at the end, like a shaft of light through storm clouds, comes this verse:

> “The Lord your God is in your midst… He will rejoice over you with singing.”

God’s song rises before the nation repents.

It’s not a reward for obedience.

It’s the sound of grace breaking through rebellion.

He sings not because everything is right,

but because redemption is on its way.

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3 – The Father’s Lullaby

“He will quiet you with His love.”

Every parent here knows that picture.

When a child cries, you don’t argue. You gather them close.

You hum something low and steady until their breathing matches yours.

That’s God.

When you’re panicked about the bills, the doctor’s report, or the silence of unanswered prayer —

He doesn’t start with a lecture.

He sings peace into the noise.

He holds you close and lets the rhythm of His heart quiet your soul.

Some of us need to stop doing for a moment and start listening.

The Holy Spirit still hums the Father’s melody under all the static of our lives.

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4 – The Song That Carried the Son

Matthew 26 : 30 records a small detail that almost feels like a footnote:

> “And when they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.”

Jesus sang — on the night of betrayal.

The hymn was likely one of the Hallel psalms (Psalms 113–118), the songs every Jew sang at Passover.

Imagine that voice — the voice that would soon cry, “It is finished,”

now lifting praise to His Father.

He knew what was coming: the garden, the arrest, the trial, the cross.

And still, He sang.

Why?

Because the Father’s song was still in His heart.

He would go through darkness with a melody of trust.

When God sings, it’s not denial of pain — it’s victory in advance.

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5 – The Echo in Our Churches

I’ve spent my life in churches filled with music —

choirs that could shake the rafters, children’s voices that made grown men cry,

and congregations that knew every verse of “Blessed Assurance” by heart.

But lately, something’s changing.

We’re losing our songbook.

Not just stylistically — spiritually.

When I lived in Dallas, I played organ for a beautiful church with a majestic classical instrument.

One week, needing a substitute, I called the music department at a major university.

I asked, “Do you have any organ students who might want to play for a church service?”

The department head paused.

Then he said something I’ll never forget:

> “We don’t really have organ students anymore. Maybe ten — nationwide.”

Ten.

I hung up the phone and just sat there at the console.

The pipes towered above me, silent, patient.

Once they had thundered “Holy, Holy, Holy.”

Now they waited for hands that no longer came.

It hit me:

We’re watching the great hymns of faith slip into museum glass.

“Be Thou My Vision.”

“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

“It Is Well With My Soul.”

These weren’t just songs — they were sermons with melody.

They carried theology into the heart.

They taught us to think deeply, feel honestly, and hope eternally.

And yet, God’s song has not stopped.

Even if human choirs grow quiet, He still sings.

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6 – The Music of Memory

Maybe part of our calling as believers is to keep the melody alive —

to remind a noisy, distracted world that sacred music still matters.

Every hymn once began as someone’s testimony.

“Great Is Thy Faithfulness” was written by a man who never saw fame or fortune,

but woke up every morning believing God’s mercies were new.

“It Is Well With My Soul” came from a father who lost his children at sea.

When we sing their words, we join their faith.

We rehearse the history of grace.