AS THIS ADVENT SEASON invites us to ponder the mystery of Jesus’s coming at Christmas, I’m sharing a short series of reflections inspired by Listening to the Music of the Soul, the Archbishop of York’s Advent book for 2025 by Bishop Guli Francis-Dehqani.
In her exploration of faith, identity, beauty and vulnerability, Bishop Guli invites us to listen for the melodies that shape our inner lives and connect us more deeply with God and one another.
In the first post in this series I shared Bishop Guli’s invitation to compile our own Desert Island Discs – eight pieces of music
‘to help you better understand yourself and the things that are important to you… [and] remind you of seminal moments in your life’.
This challenged me to reflect on the ‘music of my soul’ and the stories it evokes that tell me something about who I am now and how I came to be here. In the days up to Christmas Eve I will share one of those reflections – pieces of music and moments of meaning. Here’s my eighth and final musical moment:
Plowshare Prayer – Spencer LaJoye
This is a song written and performed by queer indie-folk artist Spencer LaJoye. It’s structured like a heartfelt prayer that names a wide range of people – from the anxious, hurt, and unseen, to those burdened by grief, fear, or shame – and asks that they might be heard, might grow, and might find peace.
The title and central image of this prayer-song – a plowshare – is explained in the song’s refrain:
‘I pray if a prayer has been used as a sword against you and your heart,
against you and your word,
I pray that this prayer is a plowshare, of sorts
that it might break you open, it might help you grow…‘
The plowshare alludes to the biblical vision of turning swords into tools for cultivation (Isaiah 2:4), a symbol of transformation, from harm into flourishing. The song imagines prayer not as something that wounds or controls, but as something that breaks open the soil of the heart so healing and life can grow.
The artwork for Plowshare Prayer single (see above) also feels like an extension of the song’s meaning: a large portrait of the singer made up of many smaller photos of people. Individual stories – faces, moments, memories – are held together rather than erased, echoing the song’s hope that what has wounded us might be transformed into something that helps life grow.
Spencer LaJoye published the song on Facebook in May 2021, intending it to be shared just with church, friends and family. They wrote of their inspiration for writing this song:
‘If you know me well, you know I don’t “pray.” It’s not that I don’t know how, or that I don’t think the practice can be fruitful… it’s just that some of us get prayed for in ways we don’t want. In ways that don’t honor us. In ways that re-closet us. In ways that short-circuit our grief. In ways that pity us. In ways that really hurt. So I tend to avoid it in the name of do-no-harm. But I was tasked with writing a song for [n ecumenical faith community] prayer/communion gathering… so I had to stare prayer in the face. And I thought, “What would a prayer sound like if it was used as a balm instead of a weapon? A plowshare instead of a sword?”‘
Reflecting later on the way the song spread beyond expectation, they said:
‘It was the grandest and rawest outcry from my own soul at a pivotal moment. And it was heard by kindred crying souls all over the world.’
LaJoye’s music often reflects themes of honesty, vulnerability, queer experience, grief, and liberation, and this song in particular has resonated with many listeners as a modern, inclusive form of lament and blessing.
In May 2021, as this song was released, I was facing an uncertain future once again. I had begun working full-time for the Open Table Network of ecumenical worship communities hosted by and for LGBTQIA+ Christians, thanks to a time-limited Covid crisis response grant. Many ‘kindred crying souls’ in our communities were experiencing profound isolation. Research in the UK in 2020 showed that more than two-thirds of LGBTQ+ people reported significant symptoms of depression during lockdown, and almost 10% said they felt unsafe in their own homes. How we would sustain the work beyond the Covid crisis was unclear.
It wasn’t until April 2024 that I first heard the song, performed by the music group at the first Open Table community in Liverpool – the place where this network of communities began. By then, the network had almost doubled in size, from 18 to 35 communities, a reminder that the need for spaces of safety for many ‘kindred crying souls’ was still growing. Hearing this song shared with such depth of feeling felt especially poignant, coming soon after I had been accepted to train for ordination in the Methodist Church, with a view to deepening my support for LGBT+ Christians through the ministry of Open Table communities.
I’ve since shared it this year in the context of the LGBT+ retreat weekend I now co-host (see my fifth musical moment) and in the chapel of the theological college where I am training for a commemoration of Trans Day of Remembrance. It still moves me deeply.
This song takes an ancient biblical hope – of swords being beaten into ploughshares – and makes it painfully personal. It is a prayer for all who have known harm from words, from faith, or from the misuse of prayer itself; and a hope that what has wounded might yet be turned into something that helps life grow.
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