Nobody set out to create Sons of Sunday. There was no rollout strategy, no secret studio session, no pressure to build a brand. But somehow, what began as a casual invitation turned into something raw, joyful and strangely important. Not because it was perfect, but because it wasn’t trying to be.
It started as a joke — an idea tossed around between text threads and writing sessions. A “what if” that was never meant to go anywhere. What if six of the most recognizable names in worship music teamed up? What if the songs that didn’t fit anywhere else finally had a home? What if the thing nobody was planning turned out to be the thing everybody needed?
Six of modern worship’s most recognizable voices — Pat Barrett, Chris Brown, Brandon Lake, Chandler Moore, Leeland Mooring and Steven Furtick — each with their own lane, their own projects, their own calendars — somehow all said yes.
They weren’t trying to launch a movement. They were trying to figure out what to do with a growing pile of songs that didn’t quite fit anywhere else.
“There’s always songs that don’t land in the moment they’re written,” Barrett said. “They don’t sound like Elevation songs. They don’t sound like my solo stuff. But they still mean something. So you just sit on them and wonder if they’ll ever have a home.”
Sons of Sunday became that home. Not a side project. Not a worship collective. Just a space — open, unscripted, low-pressure — for six artists to bring the songs that were too personal, too genre-bent, too different for anything else.
“It’s kind of like building the road after you’ve already started walking,” Barrett said. “You realize, OK, maybe these songs didn’t make it onto that last album for a reason. Maybe they were waiting for something else.”
That “something else” happened over the course of three days in a chapel last September. There was no tour, no audience, no plan beyond: show up, record, and trust that something worth keeping would surface.
“We had no idea what we were doing,” Brown said. “Like, practically, we had cameras rolling from morning to night. No set schedule. No rehearsals. We just pressed record and went. Some of us had never even met before that week.”
Barrett remembers walking in a little late after catching a flight from a show the night before.
“I showed up in board shorts. No agenda. Just ready to create with people I respected,” He said. “And within an hour, we were tracking songs like we’d done it a hundred times before.”
They tracked three or four songs a day, often learning them on the fly.
“You’d hear, ‘Pat wrote this one with Brandon, who’s going to lead it?’” Brown said. “And we’d just figure it out in real time.”
What they captured wasn’t slick or overproduced. It wasn’t trying to be. The point wasn’t perfection — it was presence.
“That’s the thing,” Barrett said. “When you come in and no one’s trying to impress anyone, something honest happens. We weren’t aiming to polish. We were aiming to tell the truth.”
That spontaneity created space for moments they couldn’t have planned. Songs like “What Didn’t He Do” emerged between takes, born from a loose jam and a free piano riff.
“It wasn’t even supposed to be a song,” Barrett said. “But Chris jumped on the congas, and suddenly it just … became something.”
Other moments, like “Holy Ghost,” took shape as a kind of collective groove.
“It was fun,” Brown said. “One of those tracks where you could see people just smiling in the room. That joy shows up in the music.”
The band dynamic felt more like longtime friends hanging out than a supergroup trying to impress each other. But in that looseness was something rare: real joy.
“I can’t listen to the album without smiling,” Barrett said. “And I don’t mean that in a cheesy way. I mean it in a ‘something in me is being reminded of joy’ kind of way.”
That tone runs through the whole record — from the playful stomp of “All Back” to the steady, hopeful groove of “Running With Angels.” But it isn’t all upbeat. Some songs carry real emotional weight.
Brown points to the track “One More Day,” which became one of the project’s most affecting moments.
“That song already hit hard,” he said. “But then Leeland tags ‘Amazing Grace’ at the end — just one time, totally unrehearsed. And I was done. I sat down. I wept.”
Barrett felt it too.
“It was hard to even take in, emotionally,” he said. “Because when someone is leading like that — not performing, just offering — you feel it. You’re not worried about whether the vocal is perfect. You’re just present.”
Even Furtick, known more for co-writing and pastoring than singing, stepped into the vocal booth.
“He took the first line on the first song,” Barrett said. “Track one, first voice you hear. That set the tone for the whole thing. He went first. That’s leadership.”
It was a theme throughout the sessions — an intentional lack of hierarchy.
“Nobody was trying to be the frontman,” Barrett said. “You weren’t expected to sing like anyone else. It was like, show up as you are. That’s the gift.”
Brown said the lack of structure actually made the group better.
“Everyone came in confident in who they were, but nobody was trying to outshine anyone. It made the whole thing feel … warm. Like a sandbox.”
That looseness also led to the album’s strange cohesion. It hops genres — from gospel to folk to line-danceable pop — but somehow never feels scattered.
“Each song reflects the personality of whoever is leading it,” Barrett said. “It’s eclectic, but it works because the people are unified. We weren’t trying to create a sound. We were trying to be honest.”
The songs also benefited from a sense of shared purpose.
“We’ve all done worship music in different forms for a long time,” Brown said. “But this felt different. It was still worship, but from another angle — like celebration instead of desperation. Like singing from victory instead of begging for it.”
The name Sons of Sunday was never supposed to be serious. But it stuck. And then it made sense.
“It became this space for all the orphaned songs,” Brown said. “The ones that were waiting for the right moment. This was it.”
Barrett agrees.
“I actually think this wouldn’t have worked a few years ago,” he said. “It needed to be now. Where we’re all at in our lives, in our ministries — it was the right time for this kind of project.”
So will there be another moment?
“Hopefully,” Barrett said. “It’s not on the books. But I hope so.”
“There’s been talk of doing a one-night-only show,” Brown said. “Maybe at the Ryman. Or Dollywood. Six nights a week, two matinees on Sundays. We’re dreaming big.”
For now, each member of Sons of Sunday is back in their own orbit — back on the road, back in the studio, back in their churches and ministries.
Pat Barrett continues to tour and write solo worship records, most recently focused on intimacy and simplicity in worship.
Chris Brown is still leading the charge at Elevation Worship, working closely with Furtick and the team on new material and ongoing church leadership.
Brandon Lake is currently wrapping another solo tour and collaborating with artists across genres — both worship and mainstream.
Chandler Moore remains an anchor in the Maverick City Music collective, helping to shape its evolving sound and expanding influence.
Leeland Mooring has been in the studio working on new music under His own name, while continuing to write for others in the worship space.
And Steven Furtick is still preaching every Sunday, co-writing behind the scenes and building Elevation Church’s teaching and creative platforms.
They’re not putting pressure on the next chapter. They’re just leaving the door open.
“We didn’t plan this,” Barrett said. “God did. So we’ll see where He wants it to go.”
