This Is What It Looks Like When God Lets Go: Trans Day of Invisibility

In the ancient Greek world, there once existed a sex cult tucked in the hidden nooks and crannies of the culture where frenzied dancers twirled beneath moonlit groves and drank deeply from goblets filled with fermented madness. They worshipped a god named Dionysus, the so-called god of wine, fertility, and unrestrained ecstasy.

This may sound rustic and poetic, but don’t be deceived. This was no vineyard picnic with flute music and olives. It was a reveling pit of debauchery, and its rites would make even the most degenerate modern nightclub blush.

Among the cultists were men who dressed as women, painted their faces like concubines, and let their hair down—literally and metaphorically. They were known as maenads and satyrs, though today, they'd likely have TikTok handles and nonprofit status.

They minced and swayed, not to connect with nature, but to transcend it—to unravel it. In their view, dissolving gender was the key to finding god. Or more precisely, to becoming god. Because that's the heart of it, isn’t it? This wasn’t worship of the true and living God by any means—it was a rebellion. It was Eden in reverse.

It was man dressing up like woman and saying, "I will ascend. I will be like the Most High."

Their sacred rituals included sexual acts of every imaginable variety, but particularly celebrated were the homosexual pairings. These weren’t just accepted—they were celebrated. Ecstasy was their liturgy, intoxication their communion. They didn’t seek holiness, but a divine high.

This was not worship for the sake of reverence, but self-indulgence for the sake of obliterating natural boundaries. It was licentiousness, institutionalized. Lust as liturgy. Confusion as catechism.

Now fast forward a couple thousand years, and the robes have become crop tops, the incense has been replaced by vape pens, and the temples now bear the seal of the State.

The Utah State Capitol, to be precise.

There, hundreds gathered to wave the latest iteration of the rainbow—no longer a sign of covenant, but a banner of conquest. They paraded a 200-foot transgender pride flag up the steps of government, dragging it like a ceremonial cloak for their new high priests and priestesses—most of whom seem to be neither.

And if you look closely—if you dare to squint past the confetti and slogans—you’ll see it. The same cult. The same spirits. The same old rebellion with a fresh coat of institutional gloss. They call it “visibility.” But it's not visibility they crave. It's validation. It's not enough to tolerate them, you must celebrate them. You must bend the knee, not just in the marketplace, but in the sanctuary. In the home. In the womb.

It’s everywhere, even in churches.