Our Thoughts
The articles below reflect the heartfelt convictions of our band. They’re written for those who long to glorify God by knowing Him more deeply through His Word, and for anyone in need of biblical encouragement and edification. While we share personal reflections, we always strive to anchor our thoughts in the truth of Scripture—because we believe God’s Word is the final authority and the source of all lasting hope and wisdom.
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Forgive as If It Never Happened
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By Shunned at a Funeral
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Forgiveness is one of those things everybody agrees with in theory, but when you’re the one carrying the wound, suddenly it’s not philosophical anymore. It’s personal. And sometimes other Christians don’t help, because we’ve heard all the lines — “time heals,” “forgive but don’t forget,” “sins have consequences,” and half the time those phrases are used less as encouragement and more as quiet ways of keeping someone in the penalty box.
But the more closely you look at Scripture, the harder it is to justify that kind of forgiveness. God doesn’t forgive like a cautious accountant. When He forgives, He removes our sins “as far as the east is from the west” and chooses to “remember them no more.” Not for a probation period. Not until we “prove ourselves.” Just… no more. It’s grace that looks almost reckless to human eyes.
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That beauty is actually why we wrote The Prodigal Daughter. Because that scene — the father sprinting down the gravel road toward the child who broke his heart — is forgiveness in motion. Dust flying, arms wide open, no lecture, no stiff distance, no “now we’ll rebuild trust slowly.” Just love running as fast as it can. That is exactly the kind of forgiveness Jesus tells us to imitate. And honestly, that’s why so many of our songs end up circling around forgiveness. It’s one of the clearest places where Christ is glorified. Mercy is where His heart shines brightest.
People like to quote “sins have consequences,” but often it’s used as a spiritualized way of punishing someone long after God has forgiven them. And sure, sin can cause damage — nobody denies that — but God is constantly overriding consequences. Constantly absorbing them. Constantly transforming them. Romans 8:28 doesn’t say He works some things together for our good; it says all things, even the ones we wish had never happened. Sometimes God brings astonishing good out of our worst failures. Sometimes He shields us from consequences we absolutely deserved. And He overlooks far more of our sins than we ever realize. If He didn’t, we wouldn’t make it through a morning.
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Look at Peter. He didn’t just make a small mistake — he denied Jesus three times, publicly, fearfully, in the moment Jesus needed him most. If the modern church handled that moment, Peter would’ve been benched for years with an extensive restoration plan. But Jesus restored him with three questions on a beach… and fifty days later, Peter is preaching Pentecost. That’s God’s forgiveness: no probation, no dragging his sin behind him, no cautious “re-entry period.” Just restoration.
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Then there’s that line where Jesus tells Peter we forgive “seventy times seven.” People usually take that as hyperbole — forgive a lot. But the numbers aren’t accidental. Seven is the number of completion. Seventy multiplies it. Seven times seventy magnifies it again. Jesus is saying forgiveness isn’t mathematical; it’s complete, overflowing, divine. And yes, that can mean a person sins against you repeatedly. It can also mean you’ll need to forgive the same wound dozens, even hundreds of times in your own mind until the bitterness finally breaks. That’s normal. That’s human. And Jesus accounted for that in His math.
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Forgiving “as if it never happened” doesn’t mean you pretend the hurt wasn’t real. It means you refuse to weaponize it. You refuse to replay it. You refuse to let the other person’s failure become the defining story of your relationship — or of your heart. God doesn’t do that to us. He could. He has every right to. But He chooses mercy instead.
And we don’t forgive because it’s easy; we forgive because it’s freeing. Unforgiveness always ends up hurting the person who holds it. Bitterness spreads. It drains joy. It stifles worship. It weighs down the soul. But when you forgive — even shakily, even reluctantly, even one inch at a time — the weight lifts. Your heart loosens. You breathe again. Joy finds cracks to grow in.
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Forgiveness doesn’t rewrite the past, but it absolutely rewrites you. It changes the way you see the world, the way you respond to pain, and the way you imitate Christ. And that’s why forgiveness is so central to the Christian life — because every time it happens, the gospel becomes visible. Mercy becomes real. Christ gets glory.
If God is putting someone on your heart right now, don’t ignore it. Forgiveness may not happen in one dramatic moment; sometimes you have to release the same thing seventy times seven. But every release loosens the chain. Every act of grace draws your heart closer to the God who ran down the gravel road for you first.
Forgiveness is beautiful because the One who forgave us is beautiful. And when we forgive like Him — even imperfectly — the gospel sings a little louder in this world.
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— Shunned at a Funeral
Why Do We Write What We Do?
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By Shunned at a Funeral
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There’s a reason our band gravitates toward the heavy things — grief, loss, miscarriage, tragedy, betrayal, forgiveness, redemption. People sometimes ask us why we write songs like Where Tears Are No More, which walks through the quiet heartbreak of a miscarriage, or Broken Glass, Broken Heart, which tells the story of losing a child to a drunk driver and learning to forgive a person you can barely stand to look at. We know these aren’t “radio-friendly” topics. We know they don’t fit neatly into the soft-focus positivity that dominates Christian radio. But the truth is, real Christians live in a world full of real pain, and pretending otherwise doesn’t make anybody stronger.
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When we look at Scripture, we don’t see a God who avoids sorrow — we see a God who steps right into it. The Bible doesn’t read like glossy marketing; it reads like the story of humanity groaning for redemption. We see barren wombs and shattered hearts. We see widows, prodigals, exiles, prisoners, and people crying out “How long, O Lord?” We see Jesus Himself weeping at a tomb. The Bible is not afraid of tears, so why should songs written for the church be?
We write about miscarriage because God sees every unseen loss. We write about devastating accidents because God is near to the brokenhearted. We write about forgiveness and redemption because they don’t feel like Hallmark words when you actually need them — they feel like rescue. They feel like breathing. They feel like the gospel.
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The reason so many of our songs dig into hard soil is because that’s where the gospel grows most beautifully. God never promised us a sanitized, picture-perfect life. What He did promise is that “all things work together for good for those who love Him.” All things. Not just the pleasant things. Not just the mountaintop moments. All things — the miscarriages, the diagnoses, the betrayals, the funerals, the nights you don’t know if you can pray again. Those are the places where heaven’s light doesn’t feel theoretical; it feels like the only thing holding you up.
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We write songs about these things because believers need something deeper than the vague, romantic-sounding language that fills so much of today’s Christian music. So much of what’s on the radio could easily be mistaken for a breakup song or a love note to a significant other. There’s very little theological weight, very little Scripture, and almost no acknowledgment of suffering. But the God we worship isn’t a boyfriend — He’s the Creator of the universe who stepped into human flesh, bore our sin, died in our place, and rose again defeating death. Our songs should sound like that story. They should echo that glory. They should meet people in the valley and not pretend the valley doesn’t exist.
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Christians walk through miscarriages.
Christians bury loved ones too soon.
Christians get betrayed.
Christians face tragedy.
And Christians, through the Holy Spirit, forgive the unforgivable.
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We don’t sing about these things because we’re morbid; we sing about them because they’re true. Because they’re the ground where redemption becomes visible. Because when a believer can say, “God is still good” with tears on their face, that is one of the clearest testimonies on earth.
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If our songs can help someone breathe again… if they can remind a grieving parent that heaven is real… if they can help someone walk toward forgiveness instead of bitterness… if they can lift a wounded heart toward Christ… then they’re worth writing. And they’re worth singing.
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We believe worship should strengthen believers, not distract them. It should point to the cross, not to ourselves. It should anchor the soul when the storms come — because storms always come. The kind of music we write is simply our way of saying:
Christ is still Lord even when the world breaks.
Christ is still good even when life is not.
Christ is still worthy even when your heart feels shattered.
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That’s why we write the songs we do.
Not to dwell on sorrow, but to proclaim the hope that outshines it.
Not to stir sadness, but to make sure no believer walks through sadness alone.
Not to sensationalize suffering, but to declare the Savior who meets us in it.
If the church is going to sing, then let’s sing the whole truth — the hard, the holy, the human, and the healing — because God is Lord over all of it.
And if even one person hears a song like Where Tears Are No More or Broken Glass, Broken Heart and realizes, “I’m not alone… and God is not done,” then the song has done exactly what it was created to do.
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— Shunned at a Funeral