Paul Lancaster ties the knot | The Guardians tenor on grief, guarded love, and letting his boys lead the way

TEXAS GOSPEL CANADA VOLUNTEER

Paul Lancaster has spent decades building a career on trust: trust in his voice, trust in the groups that shaped him, and trust in the audiences who followed him from Alabama church stages to the biggest platforms in gospel music. Now he’s added another kind of trust to the list, the kind that comes with a wedding ring.

The Guardians tenor has married Greta, the woman he calls a blessing that arrived when he least expected it. Their story began in 2021, not long after Lancaster lost his wife, Michelle. Neither of them was looking for love. “She came into my life in 21, just a few months after Michelle had passed. I wasn’t looking for anybody, and neither was she,” Lancaster said. “God put us together. My mother-in-law had a lot to do with, my mother-in-law and God had a lot to do with putting us together.”

For a man who’d built his whole life around family, the stakes of a new relationship weren’t small. Lancaster’s sons came first, and he wasn’t willing to risk their wellbeing on a decision made out of loneliness rather than clarity. “I wanted somebody, because sometimes out of loneliness, you can make the wrong decision, and I did not want to do that,” he said. “I’ve seen somebody out of loneliness will make the wrong decision. It can divide the family because it’s not good for you. The people that love you can see it. Maybe you can’t because loneliness won’t let you see it, right? But this was not the case.”

That caution paid off. Greta didn’t just win Lancaster over, she won his boys over too, and for him, that mattered as much as anything. “My family, my boys love her, which that had to be a deal,” he said. “I was very guarded about that because my boys were first. They were my responsibility. But God has blessed us. She has brought us even together and closer. The boys love her.”

It’s a fittingly quiet, faith-centered turn for a singer whose career has been anything but quiet. Lancaster came up singing locally in Alabama before landing on some of gospel music’s biggest stages, first catching wider attention through the Gaither Homecoming videos during his run with Mullins & Company. From there he moved through some of the genre’s most storied lineups, including the Nelons, the Martins, and the Booth Brothers, building a reputation as a tenor who could slot into any group and make it better.

That reputation is exactly why the Guardians came calling at the start of 2023, bringing Lancaster on full time to fill the tenor position during Dean’s absence. By the group’s own account, the fit exceeded expectations. His voice found its place in the blend, and so, it seems, did the rest of him: the guarded father, the grieving widower, and now, the newly married man who found love again on his own terms.

The living room floor where Paul Lancaster found gospel music

Long before he was standing on stage with The Guardians, Paul Lancaster was a kid parked on his living room carpet, working his way through his mother’s record collection one album and eight track at a time.

“I sat in front of there and just pulling out albums and eight tracks,” Lancaster remembers, half laughing at himself. “I know that dates me a lot.”

That collection was sprawling and unpredictable. You could jump from Elvis to a Sunday morning quartet without warning. Lancaster wore out one particular Elvis eight track, drawn especially to the gospel side of the King’s catalog. “I loved the rhythmic singing of Walk Them Golden Stairs and Josh Fit the Battle,” he says. “Oh, it’s good stuff.”

From there, the collection opened into what Lancaster calls Jesus Music of the Air: Andrae Crouch, Sammy Hall, Don Francisco, names that shaped a generation of Southern gospel and contemporary Christian sound alike. For a kid on a living room floor, it was less a genre than a whole world.

Then there was the album he avoided entirely.

Southern gospel group The Guardians promotional photo. (Photo courtesy Daywind Records)

Tucked into his mother’s collection was a record by Jerry and the Goffs, its title alone enough to spook a young Lancaster: “God’s Gonna Get You for That.” He steered clear of it for years. “As a kid, I kind of shied away with it for a while until I listened to it, and it was really good, you know,” he says now, the fear replaced by fondness.

Looking back, Lancaster frames those afternoons as something close to formative, not because any single song set him on a path, but because of the sheer range of what he was hearing. “Those were a lot of good memories of sitting on my living room floor at home and listening to just a lot of different things from the day,” he says.

What actually set the hook came a few years later, when Lancaster was ten years old and saw Gold City Quartet perform live for the first time. “Then I was hooked for sure,” he says simply. No embellishment needed. That was the night the music stopped being something he listened to and became something he wanted to do.

Decades on, Lancaster sings alongside John Darin Rowsey, Pat Barker and Dale Forbes as The Guardians, a quartet built on tight harmony and a shared commitment to the gospel that shaped all of their childhoods in one form or another. The group has picked up three Dove Award nominations and multiple number one songs along the way, occasionally welcoming founding member Dean Hickman back to the stage, a man with more than 60 years in gospel music behind him.

Their newest single, “I Know You,” feels like a natural extension of the records that filled Lancaster’s childhood living room, songs built to be sung loud and mean it. The chorus lands with the plainspoken conviction Lancaster grew up on: “But I know you and who you are is holy. Who you are is mighty. Everything that I could never be. Who you are is faithful, merciful, and able. The righteous one that meets my every need. Who you are is great and worthy of all praise. With an empty grave to prove it all was true.”

It is not hard to hear an eight track kid in that chorus, still sitting on the floor, still pulling one more record off the shelf.