Dear Effeminate Pastor,

You stand on a stage, not a pulpit. Beneath theatrical lights, not the burning fire of truth. Draped in pastel rebellion and accessorized like a department store mannequin on discount, you glide across the platform like a self-help seminar host with a theology degree from Instagram. And you wonder, out loud, why men won’t darken your doorway.

You scratch your head while lamenting from your acrylic barstool why your pews are filled with Pinterest moms and therapy junkies, while the men stay home, grilling burgers, throwing footballs with their sons, or just reclaiming their dignity in silence. The answer isn’t buried in mystery. It’s staring back at you in your own reflection—right there under your scoop-neck cashmere blend.

You’re hemorrhaging men.

Not because men have abandoned Christ…many have, but that isn’t why. It’s because your church has abandoned them. You’ve swapped the lion’s roar for a kitten’s purr. The sword of truth for a feather duster. You’ve alchemized the radical call of discipleship into a self-help session set to acoustic guitar.

And your attire? A sermon in fabric on how to castrate masculinity without ever drawing blood.

You dress like a gender studies major on laundry day and preach like a man apologizing for the God he claims to serve. You mistake cowardice for meekness, spinelessness for gentleness, ambiguity for nuance. You whisper sweet nothings from the pulpit because you’re terrified of conviction, allergic to confrontation, and addicted to applause.

This isn’t just about your pink sweaters, delicate gestures, or cropped pants that scream ‘urgent identity crisis.’ It’s the whole curated aesthetic: the Instagram-filtered sermons, the caffeinated sanctuaries, the emotion-simulating light shows that make church feel more like a boutique wellness retreat than a battlefield for souls.

You invite open homosexuals posing as pastors to lecture on sexual ethics. You platform men who dress and act like female fashion influencers, and then ask why your church has become a man-repellent zone. Spoiler, it’s not because men hate church. It’s because they hate pretending they’re at a Hillsong cosplay convention every Sunday.

You don’t want men. Not real ones. You want docile, agreeable, emotionally delicate eunuchs—men who ask permission to lead their families, apologize for existing, and nod along to your diluted gospel like interns at a yoga retreat. You want the kind of man who quotes Brené Brown, shops at Anthropologie, and thinks Paul was just a bit too “assertive.”

But the world is choking on weak men. Families are gasping for fatherhood. Classrooms are cluttered with boys trained to apologize before they speak. And into that crisis walks you—with your sermon series titled “Feelings” and your fog machine set to “safe mode.”

Don’t kid yourself—this isn’t cultural accommodation. No one demanded this. Vogue didn’t bully you into it. GQ didn’t send you a subpoena. This is theological rebellion dressed in Urban Outfitters clearance. You chose this. You built this. You curated this aesthetic down to the bracelets and bangles. This isn’t conformity. It’s a calculated revolution against everything Scripture teaches about men, strength, and spiritual leadership.

You’re not appeasing culture. You’re attempting to reprogram it. You want to declaw biblical manhood. You want to rewrite gender by platforming fragile men who know more about their skincare routines than their Bibles. You’ve traded apostolic clarity for blog-tier babble, swapped soldiers of Christ for emotionally unstable spokesmodels. And you did it all in the name of being “approachable.”

You sanitized Paul. You neutered David. You turned Elijah into a therapist. You erased the battlefield and replaced it with a beanbag circle. And now you look out at a sanctuary full of emasculated, aimless, confused men—and you blame them for not wanting to stay.

All while the world burns. Kids are being groomed and trafficked, families are dissolving, and masculinity is in retreat. But you, with your soy latte and your books titled “Gentle & Lowly,” are worried about whether your tone is too triggering.

You call it relevance. It’s rot.

You call it grace. It’s surrender.

You call it courage. It’s cowardice in lavender pants.

You’ve built a brand, not a body. You’ve gathered fans, not disciples. You’ve confused applause with authority. And now the church is bleeding out onto the street—one skinny-jeaned sermon at a time.

You want to know why men are gone? Because you drove them away.

You want them back? Then act like men. Or stop asking why they left.

Sincerely, Every man who still has a spine.