Rebecca Anderson’s new single, “In the Beginning,” lands with the quiet insistence of finding an unexpected patch of vibrant green moss flourishing on a stark city sidewalk – something natural and enduring where you didn’t anticipate it. This is Soulful R&B from the LA-based, classically trained artist, but it carries an unusual stillness, a contemplative core. Anderson isn’t aiming for chart-storming bombast; instead, the track meticulously builds its structure on the foundational concept of God’s unwavering presence – the Alpha Omega, the fixed point in a world that feels increasingly… well, wobbly.
The groove possesses a smoothness, sure, yet it’s almost deceptively gentle, like a deep river current beneath a calm surface. Within this flow, the lyrics chart immense theological ground: divine sovereignty, everlasting love, the kind of profound trust that bypasses the need for empirical proof. Anderson sings of personal transformation (“never been the same”), finding strength purely through belief. There’s a litany of divine names invoked – provider, healer, peace, savior, “I Am” – which, funnily enough, reminds me of studying ancient Akkadian cylinder seals in a dusty museum basement years ago, how they crammed lists of divine attributes onto tiny stone surfaces, asserting comprehensive power through sheer inventory.
It comes, we’re told, from a period of deep spiritual connection and divine inspiration, and that sincerity is palpable. The track isn’t demanding your attention; it seems content to simply exist, mirroring the very permanence and perpetual reign it celebrates. It’s less about overt persuasion and more about quiet affirmation, offering itself as an anchor in potentially turbulent personal waters. It lays out a case for sufficiency, the idea of finding everything necessary within this unchanging divine relationship, this source of unwavering love forever.
You don’t necessarily need to subscribe to the specific theology to recognize the solid ground Anderson seems to stand on here. The conviction isn’t shouted; it’s woven into the very fabric of the sound – a calm, soulful insistence aiming for a sense of abundance found not in noise, but in steadfastness. What sticks, though, is the texture of that certainty translated into song. Does it purely comfort, or does its very stillness present its own quiet challenge?
