The lights dim. A soft purple haze spreads across the stage, a carefully manufactured mist rising from hidden fog machines like some mystical veil between heaven and earth. The lead singer, a guy with the vocal timbre of a teenage boy penning poetry in his journal, breathes into the microphone, eyes closed, hand outstretched in longing.

“Take me back to the garden, lead me back to the moment I saw Your face,” he croons.

The melody drips with sentiment, a love song aching for a cosmic embrace. In the crowd, hands sway, heads tilt, and a soft, collective sigh rises. This isn’t the Church worshiping the Ancient of Days—this is an Emily Henry novel set to music.

Somewhere in the pews, an honest man shifts uncomfortably. He came here to worship the risen Christ, the King of Kings, the Alpha and Omega. Instead, he’s surrounded by a congregation murmuring syrupy lyrics about how “easy” Jesus is to love, how He’s “closer than my skin,” how His presence “feels so good.”

It doesn’t feel like church—it feels like a junior high dance, complete with ambient lighting and emotionally charged whisper-singing. And yet, week after week, the masses lap it up, never questioning why the worship of an all-powerful God has been reduced to something that could easily be mistaken for a prom ballad.

How did we get here? How did Christian worship, once defined by deep theological truths, by men singing boldly of God’s sovereignty, become a production that barely differs from a Taylor Swift concert?

It wasn’t overnight.

This descent into this effeminate style of worship was slow, methodical, and lucrative. It began with the sentimentalism of the Jesus Movement in the 60s and 70s, where good theology took a backseat to feelings. Then came the worship industrial complex, now dominated by bands like Hillsong, Bethel, and Elevation Worship—organizations that realized there was real money to be made in turning worship into a brand rather than a biblical act of reverence.

And boy, does it sell. The business model is brilliant … take a catchy, repetitive hook, inject vague language about longing and closeness, and wrap it all up in a glossy, highly produced sound that’s easy to replicate.

Churches across the country gobble it up, unaware (or maybe they are aware) that they’re not participating in worship but in a billion-dollar industry. Licensing royalties, concert tickets, album sales—all driven by music that is scarcely distinguishable from secular love songs.

The congregation, meanwhile, loves it. Why? Because they don’t worship Christ—they worship their own emotions. They come to church not to glorify God but to chase an experience, a rush, an atmosphere. When they close their eyes and sway, they aren’t contemplating the weight of Christ’s sacrifice, they’re indulging in the mood of the moment.

Most people have been conditioned to believe that true worship must feel intimate, that unless they feel personally swept into a dreamy spiritual embrace, they haven’t “experienced” God.

The most glaring reality in all of this is that this movement is powered by women. Walk into any Southern Baptist church today and who is leading the worship? More often than not, it’s women, standing center stage, hands lifted, voices ornamented with dramatic vibratos and breathy embellishments.

And the men? Silent. Passive. Watching.

The role of leading worship, biblically and historically tied to men charged with leading the congregation in doctrine and truth, has been handed over to those who are neither called nor commanded to lead in this capacity. But who cares about biblical order when the show feels so good?

It’s not that women shouldn’t sing or be part of the choir—they should. But no, they are there to perform, to command attention, to turn worship into a spectacle of themselves. The runs, the dramatic pauses, the solos—they aren’t inviting people to lift their voices in unity. They are centering themselves as the focal point of worship, inserting themselves between the congregation and the One they claim to be exalting.

And again, the men—effeminate, spiritually castrated—nod along, unwilling to lead, unwilling to challenge, unwilling to restore order.

Even the men who do lead the singing are hardly men at all. They have adopted the soft, emotional delivery of their female counterparts, raising their voices to unnatural falsettos, breathlessly whispering sweet nothings about Jesus as though He were their high school crush.

Their voices quiver, their eyes well with the slightest effort, and their hands clutch the microphone with a desperation that would make even the sappiest boy-band frontman wince. Instead of leading in strength, they lead in fragility, as though worship requires a carefully curated emotional breakdown rather than a bold proclamation of God’s glory.

Michael W. Smith, Matt Maher, Hillsong’s endless rotation of male sopranos—they all seem to have misconstrued worship for a competition in who can sound the most emotionally fragile. Each performance feels like an audition for the role of the heartbroken lover, crooning into the abyss, waiting for an answer that never comes.

Their voices do not carry the weight of truth but the delicate, feathery ache of someone penning a diary entry about their most recent heartbreak. No bass. No boldness. No strength. Just a parade of weak, trembling voices, desperately clinging to every syllable like a poet reciting love letters under the pale moonlight.

This is nothing more than theatrics—a lyrical ballet of men wearing tights too tight and prancing around on stage.

And the congregation follows along, mimicking the sentimentality, equating vulnerability with holiness, and letting themselves be led by men who sound like they might burst into tears at any moment.

And in this sea of passivity, the true purpose of worship is drowned out. Gone are the days when the congregation lifted their voices in robust, doctrinally sound hymns, where men sang with the confidence of warriors declaring allegiance to their King.

Now, the voices are lost beneath waves of instrumentation—drums, electric guitars, overproduced synth pads that smother the congregation rather than support it. The point of worship is no longer the collective voices of the saints praising the Lord in unison—it’s the performance of the band, the manipulation of the atmosphere.

Even the very act of corporate singing has been eroded. Worship, according to Scripture, is meant to be together. The voices of the saints, men and women alike, rising in unison to glorify God (Acts 4:24, Psalm 34:3).

But when worship becomes entertainment, when the songs are designed for performance rather than participation, the congregation ceases to be a part of it. They watch. They sway. They close their eyes and let the show unfold. Worship has been stolen from the people—and ultimately, stolen from God—and handed to the professionals.

Effeminate worship is not a mere nuisance—it is a cancer. It has softened men, elevated women beyond their biblical roles, and turned the exaltation of God into a self-indulgent emotional high.

It has taken the glory of Christ and reshaped it into something marketable, profitable, and utterly pathetic. And the worst part? The men let it happen. They refused to lead. They refused to guard the sanctity of worship. They allowed their churches to be feminized, their voices to be drowned out, their leadership to be usurped.

And so the church sways, eyes closed, hands raised, whispering about how “easy” Jesus is to love. And He is watching. And He is not pleased.