Shit got real this morning, in the best way.

As I prepared for my morning walk through my hood, I threw my headphones on, so automatically the world was off. Most times during these walks, I listen to an audiobook or a podcast, but honestly this morning felt different. Aside from personal stuff that I’m dealing with and just the overall current state of the world, listening to some good ole gospel music felt like the right choice. I decided on my favorite gospel album of all time, Amazing Grace by Aretha Franklin.

I hit shuffle and started on my way. Wholy Holy kicked things off, speaking to me instantly. “Wholy Holy” was originally recorded by Marvin Gaye for his landmark album What’s Going On. But this version, with Aretha’s voice as the anchor, hit me totally different. It literally stopped me in my tracks.

Just sitting with the title and overall meaning behind the song felt both clever and needed. “Wholy” isn’t just “Holy” like sacred, it also sounds like “whole-y,” meaning complete. The lyrics speak of spiritual unity, human unity. The idea that folks become whole when they come together in love and understanding.

Between Marvin’s original and Aretha’s rendition, I’ve heard this song over one hundred times. But I’ve never heard it like that. This time around, I listened different. My ears, heart and mind were finally ready to digest the lyrics beyond surface level.

It really put things into perspective on how I choose to go through dark times. My first move is usually to self isolate, pushing everyone away and opting to get through it alone. But reflecting on those moments, I realized that method never really helps. Eventually I always find myself reaching out to someone, confiding in them and realizing the darkness isn’t so dark after all.

Letting all of that marinate, I continued on with my walk. “Wholy Holy” faded out and You’ll Never Walk Alone started playing. That was the moment tears began to well up and I blurted out, “Ok, God… I’m listening.”

It’s one thing when music speaks. It’s a whole other thing when God speaks through the music.

Then add on the fact that Aretha Franklin was the vessel carrying the message. You’re really left with no other option but to listen and receive it. The lyrics and raw conviction of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” felt like it was written and recorded specifically for me and the storm I am currently praying, meditating and slowly walking out of.

Those lyrics, recorded on January 1, 1972 at the New Temple Missionary Baptist Church in Los Angeles, dried my tears on May 7, 2026 in Philadelphia.

“When you walk through a storm,

Hold your head up high,

And don’t be afraid of the dark.

At the end of the storm,

Is the golden sky,

And the sweet silver song of the lark.

Walk on through the wind,

Walk on through the rain,

Though your dreams be tossed and blown,

Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,

And you’ll never walk alone,

You’ll never walk alone.”

ARKV Amen Corner is a recurring series exploring the intersection of music, culture, and spirituality. Through essays and reflections, it examines how faith, gospel influence, and spiritual expression have shaped R&B, hip-hop, and Black creative life, whether spoken loudly in song or felt quietly between the notes.

There are artists who make music.

And then there are artists who make space.

Space to breathe.

Space to grieve.

Space to believe again when belief feels fragile.

Richard Smallwood was that kind of artist.

His passing hit differently. Not loud. Not shocking. Just heavy. The kind of loss that settles in your chest once you realize how many moments of your life his music quietly scored. Hospital rooms. Funerals. Late nights. Early mornings. Church services where the sermon didn’t even matter anymore because the song said everything that needed to be said.

Richard Smallwood didn’t just write gospel music.

He gave us language for endurance.

A Different Kind of Gospel Giant

Smallwood changed gospel without ever chasing trend or spectacle. His music was never about hype. Never about proving anything. It moved with patience. With discipline. With intention.

You could hear the classical training in his arrangements. The structure. The restraint. But you could also feel the Black church in it, the lived experience, the ache, the release. That balance became his signature.

Choir directors studied him. Musicians revered him. Congregations trusted him.

His songs didn’t rush you to praise.

They walked you there.

“You are the source of my strength…” wasn’t just a lyric. It was a grounding statement. A reminder. A reset.

Praise That Came From the Valley

What made Richard Smallwood’s music hit so hard wasn’t just the excellence, it was the honesty behind it.

He spoke openly about his battles with depression and anxiety. About the weight. About the days when faith didn’t erase the pain. About moments when simply getting through the day felt like an act of courage.

That matters.

Because for a long time, the church wasn’t great at holding space for mental health. Too often, suffering was spiritualized away. Smile through it. Pray harder. Sing louder…

Smallwood didn’t do that.

He showed us that faith and struggle can exist in the same body. That praise doesn’t cancel pain, sometimes it accompanies it.

“You are the strength of my life…” hits different when you know the person singing it needed that strength just to keep going.

The Birth of Total Praise

Total Praise didn’t come from a mountaintop moment. It came from real life. From caregiving. From watching loved ones suffer. From standing close to illness and uncertainty.

Richard Smallwood once shared that he tried to write a song about sadness. Instead, praise showed up.

That’s the key.

Total Praise is not denial.

It’s decision.

“I will lift my hands in total praise to You” isn’t a declaration of ease. It’s a choice made in the middle of difficulty. It’s praise that doesn’t wait for conditions to improve.

That’s why the song feels timeless. Why it still fills sanctuaries. Why it still closes funerals. Why it still makes people cry without warning.

When a Song Becomes a Communal Prayer

At some point, Total Praise stopped belonging to Richard Smallwood alone.

It became ours.

Across denominations. Across cultures. Across languages. It became the song people reached for when words failed. When grief was too heavy. When gratitude and sorrow shared the same breath.

And every time that final “Amen” lands, it feels collective.

Not just musical, more like communal.

It sounds like survival.

It sounds like surrender.

It sounds like trust that didn’t come easy but came anyway.

The Legacy He Leaves Behind

Richard Smallwood didn’t give us answers.

He gave us language.

Language for faith with trembling hands.

Language for praise that lives alongside pain.

Language for believing without pretending you’re okay.

His music taught us that excellence is worship. That honesty is holy. That praise doesn’t require perfection, only presence.

In a world that keeps speeding up, his work reminds us to slow down. To sit with the moment. To lift our hands not because everything is fixed, but because everything isn’t.

Rest well, Mr. Smallwood

Your music is still lifting us.

Still holding us.

Still teaching us how to praise through it all.

Well done!

Amen.

ARKV Amen Corner is a recurring series exploring the intersection of music, culture, and spirituality. Through essays and reflections, it examines how faith, gospel influence, and spiritual expression have shaped R&B, hip-hop, and Black creative life, whether spoken loudly in song or felt quietly between the notes.

Remember When a Gospel Record Completed R&B Albums?

Imagine it’s 1997. You’re rushing out of FYE, sprinting across the parking lot to your Toyota Corolla, itching to get that brand new R&B CD into the player and soak in whatever your favorite artist just birthed into the world. You hit play, and after 14 tracks of heartbreak ballads and slow jams… there it is, a gospel record. Right at the end. And somehow, it makes the whole album feel complete. Man, I truly miss those days. Or as the seasoned folks say, “the good old days.” R&B artists didn’t just include gospel for spiritual reasons, they used it as an emotional exhale, a nod to roots, and a statement of identity. Albums today are missing that root, that heavenly sprinkle of completion.

Before R&B albums started feeling “complete” with a gospel record, this wasn’t a trend, it was tradition. The roots of rhythm and blues are tangled up in gospel music, church choirs, and the Sunday morning call and response energy that Black artists grew up on. Sam Cooke, Aretha Franklin, Whitney Houston, they didn’t leave the church behind when they stepped into the studio. They brought it with them, in their runs, their harmonies, their ability to make a listener feel both joy and confession in a single note. Including a gospel track on an album wasn’t just about faith, it was about honoring the craft, the culture, and the communal experience that birthed the music in the first place.

Why Gospel Completed the Album

Gospel tracks weren’t tacked on as an afterthought, they were strategically placed, usually at the end of an album, serving as the emotional exhale after love, heartbreak, and lust had done their work. They gave the listener space to breathe, reflect, and feel uplifted. In a way, it was the musical equivalent of a deep, cleansing breath after running a marathon of feelings across 14 tracks.

Take Mary J. Blige’s Share My World (1997). After pouring her heart out across ballads and mid tempo vibes, the album welcomes with “Thank You Lord - Interlude,” a gospel interlude that feels like both a declaration and a prayer. Or Boyz II Men’s Evolution (1997), where the closing track, “Dear God,” layered with choir harmonies, transforms gratitude into something almost sacred.

And then there are my personal faves,

• Destiny’s Child – Gospel Medley (Survivor, 2001), blending their signature R&B sound with church ready harmonies.

• Faith Evans – Thank You Lord (Interlude) (Faith, 1995), a brief but potent spiritual nod punctuating the emotional journey of the album.

• Blackstreet – The Lord Is Real (Another Level, 1996), grounding the group’s R&B swagger with a reminder of faith and gratitude.

Many R&B artists cut their teeth in church choirs, and this was their way of honoring where they came from while asserting their identity in the secular music world. It was a cultural handshak between artist and listener, between past and present, between the sacred and the secular.

The Gospel Influence: More Than Just a Track

Gospel in R&B wasn’t just about lyrics, it was a sound, a feeling, a ritual. Think call and response, layered harmonies, swelling choir textures, church organ runs, handclaps echoing like a congregation in full praise. These elements didn’t just fill space, they elevated the emotional arc of the album, giving listeners a spiritual exhale after hours of love, loss, and desire.

This influence shaped more than album closers. It shaped vocal delivery. Mariah Carey’s runs, Toni Braxton’s phrasing, and even D’Angelo’s subtle gospel flourishes all carry that church trained precision and soul. Gospel didn’t just sneak in, it lived in the backbone of R&B.

Culturally, the inclusion of gospel tracks was a statement of identity. It affirmed roots, community, and lineage. By blending sacred and secular, artists were saying, we remember where we come from, and we carry it with us into the mainstream. Even today, contemporary artists like H.E.R., Daniel Caesar, and Beyoncé nod to that tradition, sometimes subtly with choir textures or organ swells, sometimes fully with gospel inspired tracks, showing that the spiritual DNA of R&B hasn’t disappeared, it’s just evolved.

ARKV Amen Corner is here to trace those threads, celebrate the sacred echoes in our favorite songs, and show that while the style may evolve, the heart of it, the lift, the exhale, the Amen, remains timeless.

Happy Sunday Yall!