John Mark McMillan never planned on becoming a worship artist. And he certainly didn’t plan to walk away from it.
But then again, not much in McMillan’s career has followed a plan. From the moment “How He Loves” became an unexpected worship anthem nearly 15 years ago, McMillan has been one of Christian music’s most reluctant figureheads—too thoughtful to stick to formulas, too spiritual to fully abandon them.
“I didn’t quit worship music,” McMillan says, “but I slowly veered away from it. Maybe kind of on purpose.”
That slow drift, one rooted in creative fatigue, spiritual dissonance and a desire to be “a whole person,” lasted over a decade. But now, he’s returned—not to the old systems, but to something new. With his latest worship album Cosmic Supreme, McMillan is charting a path forward for a Church that, like him, may be unsure how to move past its collective disillusionment.
He’s not interested in leading people back to the shiny veneer of spiritual certainty. He’s trying to write songs for those of us still figuring it out—songs that meet people in the middle of their mess and invite them to sing anyway.
“Professional believers can’t have normal conversations,” he says, half-laughing. “They can’t ask the questions normal people ask. I got tired of playing that role.”
McMillan isn’t bitter when he says this. If anything, he sounds relieved—like someone who has nothing left to prove. He’s been through the machine, felt the weight of audience expectations, and came out the other side still in love with God, but no longer willing to fake his way through it. For years, that meant stepping off church stages altogether.
“I started booking shows in clubs and theaters,” he says. “Not because I was anti-church, but because I didn’t always agree with what was being said from the pulpit before or after I played. I didn’t want to be complicit in messaging I didn’t believe in.”
It wasn’t about rebellion—it was about integrity. But even off the stage, the questions lingered. What does it mean to lead people spiritually when you’re sorting through your own doubts? What if the churchy version of you isn’t the full picture?
He references the Apple TV show Severance—in which employees undergo a medical procedure that separates their work selves (“Innies”) from their home selves (“Outies”). For McMillan, worship music had become a kind of spiritual severance.
“It’s like my worship leader self was the Innie and the rest of me was the Outie,” he says. “And they couldn’t talk to each other. I had to sever myself just to function.”
The division wasn’t sustainable. When his father-in-law was diagnosed with cancer during the pandemic, McMillan slowed down—way down. His wife became a primary caretaker. Touring stopped. The road got quiet. And for the first time in decades, he had nothing to do but be present.
“I became a professional ‘being-there’ person,” he says. “Paying the bills, getting the kids to school, just trying to support my wife through grief. There wasn’t space to plan a tour or chase a project. Life got really small and really immediate.”
That’s when it started happening.
Alone in his house, McMillan found himself singing again—quiet little praise choruses, some old, some new, all honest. No audience. No expectations. No strategy.
“It was fascinating,” he says. “The songs weren’t for anyone else. They didn’t need to be cool or clever. They were just for right now. For being here.”
Those moments of raw expression laid the foundation for Cosmic Supreme, his first true worship record in years. And, perhaps paradoxically, it’s the most McMillan thing he’s ever made.
“I wanted to embrace the uncool,” he says. “I wanted to write worship music that was sincere, even if it was a little cringey or earnest or cheesy. Because it turns out, the uncool might be the blessing.”
That theme—finding beauty in what’s dismissed or overlooked—runs throughout the album. And true to his vision, he leaned fully into the aesthetic. Music videos were filmed in a small church with 90s youth group vibes. The band wore chapel clothes. There were fake plants and old church banners. It teeters on the edge of satire—but it’s not.
“I want it to feel like it might be a joke, but it’s not,” he says. “Because we actually believe it. We love it.”
The album’s title, Cosmic Supreme, is a nod to jazz legend John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme, a record Coltrane dedicated to God. McMillan, inspired by that same kind of sacred offering, wanted to take the idea a step further—blending the intimacy of praise with the scale of the cosmos.
“If God is love, and God so loved the world—the cosmos—then Jesus is the Cosmic Supreme,” he says. “He holds it all together. Even the parts of our stories we don’t like. Even the parts we want to forget.”
It’s not lost on McMillan how different this season feels from when “How He Loves” was charting and expectations were high. Back then, success meant more albums like the hit. More songs that could sell. More pandering. But he’s done with that.
“In business, when something works, you double down. But art doesn’t work that way,” he says. “If you just repeat what people like, you end up a caricature. You stop telling the truth.”
That’s the tension he’s always lived in—between faith and art, commerce and conviction. McMillan never wanted to be anyone’s spiritual guru. He just wanted to write songs that helped people feel less alone in their questions. But now, with Cosmic Supreme, he’s doing more than that. He’s inviting people to believe again—cynicism and all.
He knows the Church is in a weird place. He’s talked to the worship leaders who are quietly struggling, the pastors who feel like they can’t be honest without getting “kicked out of the club.” He’s been there himself.
“I just want my faith to be real,” he says. “I feel like if you can’t ask the hard questions, then what are we even doing?”
But rather than walk away, he’s trying to lead us somewhere new—or maybe back to what was good all along.
“I’ve realized I really love loving God,” he says. “And I love people. That’s the bottom of it for me. If I deconstruct all the way, I end up back there. Wanting to love God. Wanting to love people.”
That’s not a naive sentiment. It’s a hard-won clarity. One built through grief, disillusionment, and the quiet work of just showing up every day. And now, McMillan is ready to show up again—with songs that make space for belief that’s messy, hopeful, and maybe even a little fun.
He’s heading out on tour this year—planning to hit as many states as he can. If you go, you might hear a song that sounds familiar in its simplicity. Something that feels like Sunday morning in 1997. Something uncool—but completely true.
