The Cancer of Effeminate Worship in the Modern Church
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.