Why Some Women Can’t Find A Man In Church
Prophecies, Potentialities, And Lies That Comfort Us
I figured I’d take a break from writing things that actually matter and dish the dirt for a day. A little palate cleanser of pettiness, if you will. The reason? Because this kind of content—the church-blame, trauma-porn, exvangelical slam poetry genre—is getting downright ludicrous. And viral. Virality always follows absurdity, like flies to garbage.
Someone posted a Substack in my comment section the other day. I clicked it. I read it. I chuckled. It was written by what I’d dub The Usual Suspect—a young-ish writer with vague seminary trauma, a head full of therapy jargon, and a bone to pick with everyone who ever told them “God has a plan.”
And I promise you, I’m going to say the most offensive things I’ve ever said in this Substack. Not because I need the attention—if I wanted visibility, I’d post a shirtless beach pic with a quote from C.S. Lewis. I’m doing this because this wave of church-blaming content is so ubiquitous, so predictably rote, that it needs a giant pendulum swing back toward something we used to have a lot of: reality.
Reality. Remember that? That hard-edged, uncomfortable, sometimes hilarious force that kept us humble in the ‘90s? Reality is what got you stuffed into lockers. It’s what made you tough. It’s what kept deviants from fully deviating. It was the social ice bath that suppressed would-be narcissists and school shooters during 200 years of American First Amendment liberties.
But over the last 50 years—maybe less—we’ve slowly lost our grip. Reality isn’t something we live in anymore. It’s something we vacation in. A spiritual Airbnb we check into for the occasional dose of discomfort.
The Asians? They’ll still tell you you’re fat. Europeans too. Mexicans will nickname your lard butt before you’ve even shaken hands. But here in the West, we’ve professionalized the lie. We curate it, publish it, brand it in Canva. And worst of all, we’ve baptized it.
We’ve become so accustomed to lying to our congregants—coddling them with low-stakes theology and therapeutic half-truths—that when someone actually tells the truth, it feels ungodly. It hits like malicious sandpaper. Too rough. Too human.
Back to the Substack. This girl was describing her time in Charismatic spaces—a landscape of prophetic fluff and pastoral pseudo-promises about “finding her man.” Apparently, she’s still waiting. Her proposed solution? Just make a choice. Carpe diem a husband into existence. Pick someone. Move on.
Here’s the problem. And here’s what she—and most of our Insta-preacher dating experts—are totally missing:
