Let them go.

Really, let them.

If your spiritual appetite can be satisfied by the incense-choked pageantry of Rome—by genuflecting before a golden cage of transubstantiated flour—then it was never Christ that you hungered for to begin with. If you’re willing to trade the blood-bought clarity of the gospel for a candlelit masquerade of man-made rituals, then the truth never had you in its grip. It’s not a fall from grace. It’s a return to form. A dog to its vomit. A sow to her mud. A seminary dropout to the nearest cathedral bookstore.

There’s a trend, a growing one. Evangelicals, disillusioned with the clown show of modern worship, stagger out of smoke machines and laser lights and straight into the marble echo chamber of Catholicism. It’s a dizzying leap—from one circus to another, only this one has Latin.

They cite things like “historical continuity” and “ancient liturgy”—as if a thick accent and a dead language are proof of divine authority. As if swapping skinny-jeaned hipsters for cassocked idolaters is a theological upgrade. As if the corpse of tradition is more trustworthy than the living Christ. They think reverence is found in architecture. They think truth is encoded in Gregorian chants. They think salvation comes by way of formalwear.

And Evangelicalism—God help us—is so busy trying to be relevant, it’s forgotten how to be faithful. The modern church looks like a pop concert, sounds like a TED Talk, and feels like a self-help seminar. People don’t walk into churches anymore, they stumble into sponsored events. And when the main act wears out his welcome—or gets caught with the secretary—well, there’s always the high church down the street. The one with relics and robes and rules.

So let them go.

Let the apostates burn their Bibles and pick up their rosaries. Let them trade Sola Fide for Hail Marys. Let them bow to a Pope who calls Muslims brothers and pretends the narrow way is a multi-lane expressway. Let them have their beads and their bones and their blessings. They were never of us.

And while we’re clearing the room, maybe it’s time to admit that the Evangelical tent has grown too wide, too loud, too hollow. It echoes with empty slogans and emotional manipulation. It caters to the lowest bidder of conviction and the highest bidder of entertainment. It peddles Christ as a brand, repentance as a buzzword, and doctrine as a divisive inconvenience.

This isn’t the bride of Christ—it’s a talent show in drag.

The ones who chase Rome and the ones who stay behind both have one thing in common: they don’t want Christ. They want experience. They want emotion. They want a curated spirituality, not a crucified Lord. Some want a stage. Others want a sanctuary. But neither want a Savior who demands their death and offers nothing in return but Himself.

They’ve mistaken the wedding dress for the bride.

True believers—those rare, blood-washed saints—don’t crave spectacle. They don’t need aesthetic. They don’t demand polished production or perfumed tradition. They just want Jesus. Not Jesus and incense. Not Jesus and Instagrammable worship sets. Just Jesus.

But He’s not enough for them. He never was. And now that they’ve moved on to bowing before golden tabernacles and confessing sins to men in collars, we finally get to see them for what they always were: frauds in disguise. Wolves in skinny jeans. Tourists of the faith.

So let them go.

Let them go light candles to dead saints while they themselves walk in darkness. Let them chant their way into judgment. Let them trade the living waters for holy water and call it spiritual depth. The gospel is not a set piece to be admired. It is a sword. And the sword cuts.

Christ will have His bride. And she won’t be found playing with puppets in an Evangelical foyer or curtsying in a Papist cathedral. She’ll be clinging to her Lord, come what may, because for her, He is not an accessory—He is everything.

Let them go.