Pat Barrett didn’t set out to fix worship music. He just got tired of pretending.
As one of the most influential voices in modern church music—co-writing “Good Good Father” and “Build My Life”—Barrett has spent years inside the machine. He knows the mechanics of a great worship set. He knows what kinds of lyrics get sung. And he knows, deep down, what gets left out.
“There’s a version of me that I’ve brought into church rooms before,” he says. “The one that feels safe. The one that’s acceptable. But I’ve also had these moments thinking, ‘Why does it feel inappropriate to bring my actual thoughts and emotions into worship?’”
That discomfort has led Barrett to ask a bigger question: Have we limited what worship is supposed to be?
For many churches, worship has become a curated emotional experience. Certain feelings—joy, surrender, confidence—are welcomed. Others—confusion, fear, doubt—are quietly discouraged. The result is a sanitized version of devotion that looks great on stage, but often feels detached from real life.
Barrett doesn’t think it’s malicious. But he does think it’s a problem.
“Limiting the full expression of devotion to God to one kind of thing is, at best, unhelpful—and at worst, it encourages hiding,” he says. “I’ve felt that. I’ve done that. I’ve walked into a worship set thinking, ‘OK, I guess I’m supposed to feel this way,’ even though I don’t.”
It’s not just an artistic critique. It’s a theological one. Scripture is full of worship that’s raw, unresolved, and uncomfortable—Psalms that rage, groan, question and lament. Yet modern worship often skips straight to the resolution. Barrett thinks that disconnect is worth interrogating.
“We project the person we want people to see,” he says. “I mean, I’m wearing a denim jacket right now because I want you to think I’m cool.”
He’s joking—but only kind of. Underneath the self-deprecation is a real awareness of how easily performance can sneak into spiritual spaces. And how often churches unintentionally reward it.
“Jesus had some pretty sharp warnings about public religion,” Barrett says. “Like, when you fast, don’t make it obvious. When you pray, don’t show off. Don’t Instagram your holiness. That’s a very countercultural invitation—just be with God. That’s enough.”
And yet, for worship leaders, musicians, and even average churchgoers, it’s easy to fall into the trap of mistaking platform moments for spiritual ones. Barrett’s advice is blunt: Let what you do on stage be 1% of what you experience with God the rest of the week.
Otherwise, he says, “you’ll be standing on a platform sharing 100% of your God moment—and it’s the only one you’ve had all week.”
This isn’t about style preferences or song arrangements. It’s about widening the emotional and spiritual range of what worship music is allowed to hold. That means making space for the kind of songs that don’t always have an easy resolution. The kind that start in the tension—and stay there.
For Barrett, worship isn’t just about what you say to God. It’s about whether you’re saying something real.
“If you have a song about mystery, or feeling overwhelmed, or your family, or deep questions about faith—it’s weirdly inappropriate not to include those in worship,” he says. “We’ve made it so vertical, so tightly defined, that we’ve left out huge parts of the human experience.”
In fact, one of the most spiritual things Barrett does each week isn’t even musical. It’s brutally honest self-reflection.
“I try to notice what’s going on in me,” he says. “Like, you’re in a room with two people, and then someone important walks in—and suddenly, you feel like they deserve more of your attention. Why did that happen? What does that say about what I value?”
It’s not the kind of spiritual practice that gets talked about in church very often. But Barrett thinks it should. Because if worship is supposed to shape us, it has to start with truth. Even the ugly kind.
That doesn’t mean worship has to be cynical or joyless. But it should be honest. And sometimes, honesty sounds like reverent silence. Or messy questions. Or a song that never quite resolves.
“I don’t think we need to force everything into being ‘inspirational,’” Barrett says. “We need more songs that just let people be where they are—and let God meet them there.”
Worship, at its core, is about connection. Not just with God, but with the full spectrum of human experience. If it feels too curated, too perfect, too emotionally safe—then maybe we’ve missed the point.
Barrett isn’t trying to burn anything down. But he is trying to clear space. For worship that doesn’t flinch. For songs that start with doubt. For sacred spaces where people don’t have to pretend.
Because sometimes, the most faithful thing you can bring to God is your unfiltered self.
