“I am chosen, not forsaken.”
“Fear doesn’t stand a chance when I stand in Your love.”
“I know breakthrough is coming, by faith I see a miracle.”
They’re anthems of hope, resilience, identity — and chances are, you’ve sung them on a Sunday morning more than once. But here’s the question: Are these songs worship, or just theological self-help set to a pad loop?
For Matt Redman, one of the most respected worship leaders and songwriters of the modern era, there’s a crucial distinction to make. “There’s nothing inherently wrong with telling the story,” he says. “But there is a beautiful dynamic that happens in worship where you tell the story — and then you respond to it.”
That response is what Redman calls the “chapel” moment in a song. It’s the pivot from narrative to prayer, from observation to awe. “I don’t want my songs to just be a classroom — I want them to be a chapel too.”
This is the difference between horizontal and vertical worship. One describes God to each other. The other speaks directly to Him. And while both have a place, Redman says something vital is lost when churches drift too far into horizontal territory — especially during corporate worship.
“The job of a worship song can be to lead you back into wonder,” he says. “To take that universal theme, express it in a unique way, and help you find a new angle into it — so it’s not just information, it’s revelation.”
The difference isn’t just lyrical — it’s theological. Horizontal songs tend to linger in what Redman calls reenactment — simply telling the story of what happened. But the best worship songs move into realization (what that story means for us today) and anticipation (what it points to in the future). Redman says the most powerful songs hit all three.
“They remind you there was a Savior who was born. Then they say, He can actually be born in you. And then they look ahead: He’s coming again.”
This is where vertical worship becomes essential. It’s not just a stylistic choice — it’s a spiritual one. Without it, Redman warns, we risk worshiping the idea of God rather than God Himself.
“In worship, we need to sing both sides,” he says. “Not just the peace of the Lord, but the power. Not just the mercy, but the majesty.”
For Redman, those contrasts are the heart of worship — and of the Gospel. “He’s the God who thunders and whispers,” he says. “The one who terrifies and befriends. The king whose footstool is the earth, and yet He knelt down and washed the feet of His disciples.”
And if our songs don’t reflect that mystery? We’re missing the point.
“If you only sing about the imminence without the transcendence,” he says, “the imminence doesn’t feel as special anyway. The wonder of the friendship is the fact that He is to be feared and yet wants friendship with us. That’s when the little explosion goes off in your soul.”
Redman’s goal isn’t just to write songs that teach. It’s to write songs that pull people into that moment of awe — where theology becomes doxology. Where truth becomes praise. Where the story of God becomes an encounter with Him.
“I want my songs not just to be a classroom,” he says. “I want that space where you can respond — where you can tell God what you think about that, where you can say thank you, where you can bring a praise in reply to what you’ve heard.”
And that’s the heart of vertical worship: not just describing what God has done, but directing your response to Him in real time. It’s the difference between talking about love and saying I love you.
So the next time you find yourself in a church service, staring up at the lyrics on the screen, ask yourself this: Are we just singing about God — or are we actually talking to Him?
If it’s the latter, don’t just sing along. Lean in. That’s what worship is for.
