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We certainly agree with the unnamed author "Publisher" that there are things to complain about regarding the contemporary church, but this article is nothing more than effeminate whining. Publisher quotes no Scripture, offers no teaching, explains no concept. He doesn't edify, exhort, or elucidate any gospel principle.
Yes it is true that some contemporary Christian music is superficial, vague, or doctrinally incorrect. This is not a new phenomenon in the Church, which has been plagued by bad teaching and bad worship for millennia.
But this isn't the real problem that Publisher has. His problem is that contemporary worship violates his taste and tradition. "It's not like my church," he mutters under his breath. His church tradition, itself the fresh and new style from the time of the Reformation, which overturned the existing tradition of that day, has become the entrenched ritual of today. Bottom line, he doesn't like contemporary worship music doing the very thing his tradition did 500 years ago.
Now, it remains to be seen if this contemporary reformation will bear good fruit. The author is convinced it not only doesn't bear good fruit, but that it is of the devil.
We shall see.
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. (Publisher seems particularly bothered by "Communion" by Maverick City Music [video], because he will quote it several times.)
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. (We wonder if Publisher has a problem with the Song of Songs, Psalm 42:2, Psalm 63:1, Psalm 84:2, or even Isaiah 26:9?)
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.” (We were unable to locate any worship song containing the lyrics "feels so good.")
It doesn’t feel like church— (Actually, it doesn't feel like Publisher's 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, (That is, hymns are better.)
How did we get here? How did Christian worship, once defined by deep theological truths, (That is, hymns are better.)
by men singing boldly of God’s sovereignty, become a production that barely differs from a Taylor Swift concert? (Why should a worship service not be like a Taylor Swift concert?)
It wasn’t overnight.
This descent into this effeminate style of worship (Publisher has not demonstrated that contemporary worship is effeminate.)
was slow, methodical, and lucrative. It began with the sentimentalism of the Jesus Movement in the 60s and 70s, (Hmmm. A lot of the Jesus movement worship was rocking and hard-hitting. For example, Larry Norman's "I wish we'd all been ready." Ironically, he also wrote "Why should the devil have all the good music," a question that rings down through the decades and plants itself on Publisher's doorstep.
Keith Green's "There is a redeemer" is theologically rich. He is particularly known for his no-holds-barred witnessing style as well as confronting the lukewarm church of his day.
The real issue is, Publisher is engaging in a broad [and false] generalization for rhetorical effect. To do this he must ignore Barry McGuire, Love Song, Second Chapter of Acts, Randy Stonehill, Randy Matthews Children of the Day, Paul Clark, Nancy Honeytree, Mark Heard, Noel Paul Stookey, Karen Lafferty, Debby Kerner & Ernie Rettino, Chuck Girard, Tom Howard, Phil Keaggy, Scott Wesley Brown, Kelly Willard, Andraé Crouch, Sweet Comfort Band, Bethlehem, Daniel Amos, Gentle Faith, The Talbot Brothers, The Way, Ron Salsbury and JC Power Outlet, Agape, All Saved Freak Band, Petra, Resurrection Band, and Servant among many others.)
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. (False choice. And by the way, a worker deserves his wages. If a songwriter or a church honestly earns money from its efforts, we have no problem with that.)
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. (More broad generalizations.)
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. (False choice.)
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. (More broad generalizations.)
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. (False choice.)
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.
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. (A litany of broad generalizations. Somehow Publisher has a rare gift - he knows peoples' hearts and motivations and thus he is qualified to consign them to perdition.)
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. (Sigh. This is getting tiring.)
The role of leading worship, biblically (Whoa. Our first mention of the Bible. So Publisher, where in the Bible do we find this information?)
and historically tied (i.e., tradition.)
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. (Waaait. What about the "biblical order?")
It’s not that women shouldn’t sing or be part of the choir—they should. (Waaait. What about the "biblical order?")
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. (Holy moley, he just keeps going on and on. Our patience is reaching its limit.)
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. (Ok, we're done with commenting about this spew of bilge.)
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.
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. (Ok, we're done with commenting about this spew of bilge.)
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.
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