Music World in Mourning: Richard Smallwood’s Show-Stopping Exit from the Spotlight

Mia Reynolds, 12/31/2025Richard Smallwood, the celebrated gospel composer and pianist, leaves behind a profound legacy as his music continues to resonate within hearts. Remembering his journey from humble beginnings to influential heights, this tribute captures his enduring spirit and the beauty of faith interwoven with music.

Smallwood’s passing, attributed to complications from kidney failure at a Maryland care facility, struck a chord that echoed beyond church walls or award stages. His family, with a heaviness impossible to disguise, shared gratitude and grief in a message on Instagram. They gently asked for privacy—those words that linger whenever greatness slips away.

But Smallwood’s story resists being bound up in a single closing line. Born in Atlanta in 1948, then raised in the vibrant swirl of Washington, D.C., his earliest memories are threaded with the sturdy faith and tireless striving that mark the Black church experience—those Sunday rituals that shape, and sometimes steady, a child at the piano. At just five, he listened more than he read; music, to him, was less a lesson than a language. By eleven, he was leading his own gospel group—not even out of childhood, already carrying the legacy of spirituals that stretch back generations.

One barely needs to squint to see the lines of fate running through his life. Roberta Flack—yes, the same Roberta Flack whose voice softened the entire world—once taught him in high school. The right teacher meets the right student, and something clicks. Later, Howard University became his proving ground. Here, Smallwood double-majored in classical vocal performance and piano; went back for a master’s in ethnomusicology—always pushing, as if he knew he had to understand both the origin of the melody and where it might wander next.

His academic pedigree shaped the man, sure, yet the music found its own audience, far from any lecture hall. Founding Howard’s first gospel choir, steering the Celestials toward Switzerland’s Montreux Jazz Festival—decades later this still sounds bold, doesn’t it?—Smallwood kept finding doors where others saw stone walls. And so, the Richard Smallwood Singers came to be. Their 1982 debut didn’t just add another album to the racks; it shifted the genre’s center of gravity. Two years on, Psalms earned a Grammy nod. The recognition piled up, but the focus never wobbled.

Many sitting in theaters in the late '90s will remember the chill that snuck over them as Whitney Houston delivered “I Love the Lord” in The Preacher’s Wife. That arrangement—Smallwood’s fingerprint—made the movie’s emotional core as resonant as a choir’s refrain. Or take Destiny’s Child, whose “Total Praise” tribute sidestepped nostalgia and felt, instead, like a living benediction. These were not mere covers; they were acknowledgements—industry giants bowing their heads to legacy.

How many composers can claim a songbook that runs from the sanctuary to the Billboard charts? Smallwood managed this tightrope walk with unforced elegance, weaving together gospel tradition, classical sophistication, and a dash of pop vitality. On occasion, you’d spot his works repurposed by Boyz II Men, or on lists tracking the most played Inspirational hits. It’s hard to know where gospel ended and contemporary music picked up—his influence had a way of dissolving boundaries.

Recognition came often, though Smallwood himself admitted more than once that the music business could feel endlessly exasperating. “I’ve been with every major gospel label that there is…” he recalled, an edge in his voice. Concepts didn’t always make it to the studio floor; even legends face closed doors. Awards, however, accumulated: eight Grammy nominations, three Dove Awards, several Stellar Gospel Music Awards, and a place in the Gospel Music Hall of Fame in 2006. Few others have played for three American presidents and crossed the Iron Curtain to sing in the Soviet Union. Perhaps the world was always smaller when his music played.

There were shadows, too: loss, depression, and illness. In his 2019 autobiography, Total Praise, Smallwood did not shy away from discussing grief. It crept into his life and, arguably, into his arrangements—the poignant minor chords nestled among declarations of faith. In his last years, as health problems and mild dementia followed, recording slowed, but the spirit behind the music—well, that proved stubbornly resilient.

Married to his music, surrounded by students, godchildren, and protégés, Smallwood built a family that stretched far beyond any household. The reach of his teaching, his attention, is harder to summarize than any biographical sketch allows—his community was, simply, wherever his songs were sung.

So to recall Richard Smallwood now isn’t simply to glance back at trophies or famous renditions. It means remembering the moments his music filled a room—a gentle tug at the heart, a reminder that faith and aching beauty can occupy the same score. Grief lingers in 2025, sure. But so do the harmonies, and the gratitude—quiet, resilient, eternal. Maybe that’s the legacy. Maybe that’s the note he leaves behind, still ringing out for anyone willing to listen.

In 2025, a year that feels weighed down already by loss, news arrived that Richard Smallwood—composer, pianist, and a name as familiar in gospel circles as Sunday morning’s hush—passed away at 77. A life’s end, yes, but here’s the thing: for so many, his music still pulses quietly in the background, an undertone both joyful and aching, refusing to fade as the headlines do.Smallwood’s passing, attributed to complications from kidney failure at a Maryland care facility, struck a chord that echoed beyond church walls or award stages. His family, with a heaviness impossible to disguise, shared gratitude and grief in a message on Instagram. They gently asked for privacy—those words that linger whenever greatness slips away.But Smallwood’s story resists being bound up in a single closing line. Born in Atlanta in 1948, then raised in the vibrant swirl of Washington, D.C., his earliest memories are threaded with the sturdy faith and tireless striving that mark the Black church experience—those Sunday rituals that shape, and sometimes steady, a child at the piano. At just five, he listened more than he read; music, to him, was less a lesson than a language. By eleven, he was leading his own gospel group—not even out of childhood, already carrying the legacy of spirituals that stretch back generations.One barely needs to squint to see the lines of fate running through his life. Roberta Flack—yes, the same Roberta Flack whose voice softened the entire world—once taught him in high school. The right teacher meets the right student, and something clicks. Later, Howard University became his proving ground. Here, Smallwood double-majored in classical vocal performance and piano; went back for a master’s in ethnomusicology—always pushing, as if he knew he had to understand both the origin of the melody and where it might wander next.His academic pedigree shaped the man, sure, yet the music found its own audience, far from any lecture hall. Founding Howard’s first gospel choir, steering the Celestials toward Switzerland’s Montreux Jazz Festival—decades later this still sounds bold, doesn’t it?—Smallwood kept finding doors where others saw stone walls. And so, the Richard Smallwood Singers came to be. Their 1982 debut didn’t just add another album to the racks; it shifted the genre’s center of gravity. Two years on, Psalms earned a Grammy nod. The recognition piled up, but the focus never wobbled.Many sitting in theaters in the late '90s will remember the chill that snuck over them as Whitney Houston delivered “I Love the Lord” in The Preacher’s Wife. That arrangement—Smallwood’s fingerprint—made the movie’s emotional core as resonant as a choir’s refrain. Or take Destiny’s Child, whose “Total Praise” tribute sidestepped nostalgia and felt, instead, like a living benediction. These were not mere covers; they were acknowledgements—industry giants bowing their heads to legacy.How many composers can claim a songbook that runs from the sanctuary to the Billboard charts? Smallwood managed this tightrope walk with unforced elegance, weaving together gospel tradition, classical sophistication, and a dash of pop vitality. On occasion, you’d spot his works repurposed by Boyz II Men, or on lists tracking the most played Inspirational hits. It’s hard to know where gospel ended and contemporary music picked up—his influence had a way of dissolving boundaries.Recognition came often, though Smallwood himself admitted more than once that the music business could feel endlessly exasperating. “I’ve been with every major gospel label that there is…” he recalled, an edge in his voice. Concepts didn’t always make it to the studio floor; even legends face closed doors. Awards, however, accumulated: eight Grammy nominations, three Dove Awards, several Stellar Gospel Music Awards, and a place in the Gospel Music Hall of Fame in 2006. Few others have played for three American presidents and crossed the Iron Curtain to sing in the Soviet Union. Perhaps the world was always smaller when his music played.There were shadows, too: loss, depression, and illness. In his 2019 autobiography, Total Praise, Smallwood did not shy away from discussing grief. It crept into his life and, arguably, into his arrangements—the poignant minor chords nestled among declarations of faith. In his last years, as health problems and mild dementia followed, recording slowed, but the spirit behind the music—well, that proved stubbornly resilient.Married to his music, surrounded by students, godchildren, and protégés, Smallwood built a family that stretched far beyond any household. The reach of his teaching, his attention, is harder to summarize than any biographical sketch allows—his community was, simply, wherever his songs were sung.So to recall Richard Smallwood now isn’t simply to glance back at trophies or famous renditions. It means remembering the moments his music filled a room—a gentle tug at the heart, a reminder that faith and aching beauty can occupy the same score. Grief lingers in 2025, sure. But so do the harmonies, and the gratitude—quiet, resilient, eternal. Maybe that’s the legacy. Maybe that’s the note he leaves behind, still ringing out for anyone willing to listen.