Listen up, Tyler. Psalm 150 says “Praise Him with the clash of cymbals, praise Him with resounding cymbals.” So let’s hear it, son! Smash that crash and bash that splash. Show us what it looks like to be truly possessed by the Holy Spirit. You’ve been gingerly plinking away on your little hi-hat during every hymn today and the congregation is ready for some divine rumbling on those drums. Leadeth these people past the still waters and into a heavenly double-time breakdown with some triumphant ting ting ta-ting on the ride cymbal. Let the angels proclaim the glory of that sick beat.
You’re the backbone of this song and you’re over there clip-clopping around like some delicate show pony afraid of hurting the grass. Get into it! Make it sizzle like the burning bush! Let the King of Kings know you mean business. Light this place up like the blazing sulfur and fire that rained on Sodom and Gomorrah and melt the faces off all the wicked heathens with your sacred grooves.
Tyler, you’re wobbling around the kit like a Philistine returning from battle with a spear in his back. The Levites carried the Ark of the Covenant in the desert for 40 years and you can’t even carry the beat for 40 seconds? Maybe we should put in your understudy and see if they can handle a simple 4/4 time signature at 100bpm.
This erratic tempo is straight-up sacrilege. Don’t think I won’t roll up out of here and convert. I went full Greek Orthodox one year just for the food. Your little wafers ain’t got nothing on their spanakopita. And they have like a dozen different types of baklava! Praise be to Greek Jesus, that stuff is true manna from heaven.
Get with it, Tyler. I have a mind to march back there and grab those clash cymbals just to get this banger slapping. You gotta shake it up and turn it loose with rolls and fills and a thundering double-bass barrage that can bring the house down like the walls of Jericho. Tell these people they need to be like Noah and prepare for a flood of booming beats and righteous rat-a-tat. Psalm 18 says, “The Lord is my rock,” but you play more like you’ve been worshiping the false idol of adult contemporary.
Speaking of blasphemy—Padre, can you mute your little drive-through window microphone while we’re singing? The Almighty himself couldn’t heal your tone-deaf warbling. Psalm 100 says “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” not “screech like a dying pterodactyl and make baby Jesus cry.”
Oh, real mature Padre, siccing your altar boys and elderly ushers on me like that. You know I'm right! Ok, forget it. I’m heading to that episcopal church I passed on the way here. That place was rocking some high-energy gospel jams and I’m ready to get baptized in the Blood of the Lamb for real.