Jeff

Feb 4

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Back when Kanye West first strutted into the Christian sphere, waving around his so-called conversion like a VIP pass to the kingdom of heaven, I watched in absolute bewilderment as some of the most discerning Christians I knew—people who could sniff out heresy from a thousand miles away—suddenly lost all sense of judgment.

It was as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers, and they were all chanting in unison: He’s one of us now! He’s changed! He’s born again!

I tried. I really tried. I pleaded with people to pump the brakes, to take a step back, to look at the fruit. Because let’s be honest—when a man claims to have had a radical, life-altering encounter with the Creator of the universe, you expect to see something other than ego-driven theatrics and superficial lip service.

But no, the moment Kanye slapped a Jesus sticker on his merch, the evangelical world, including the Reformed world, opened its arms and wallets, eager to parade him around like a newly minted mascot for Christianity in the cultural mainstream.

The warning signs were there from the beginning, flashing in bright neon. Did people forget that in one of his earliest so-called “Christian” interviews, Kanye sat across from James Corden on The Late Late Show and boasted that he was the greatest artist that God had ever created?

Did that sound like the words of a man who had been humbled at the foot of the cross?

Not to me.

And yet, Christians lapped it up, eager to believe that God had just handed us the ultimate celebrity endorsement.

Then came the Sunday “services.” A bizarre, self-glorifying spectacle where Kanye stood at the center of the stage like a golden calf, a phony high priest presiding over a congregation of hypebeasts and celebrities, preaching a gospel of self-actualization dressed up in choir robes.

And the content? A watered-down, feel-good message with just enough Jesus sprinkled in to keep the seeker circus hashtag holiness swooning. Jesus is King dropped, and suddenly “Yeezy,” or whatever his name is/was, was the new poster boy for born-again celebrity style—a man who had supposedly abandoned his past debauchery, reformed his mind, and was now leading a revival in the industry.

Not all of us were fooled. Look at the fruit.

Because Jesus didn’t say, “By their Grammy nominations you shall know them.” He didn’t say, “By their ability to drop an album featuring gospel choirs you shall know them.” No, He said, By their fruits you shall know them.

And what fruit did Kanye bring forth? Was it humility? Was it repentance? Was it a broken and contrite heart, the kind that trembles at God’s Word?

No. It was the same old Kanye, wrapped in a fresh coat of self-righteous grand delusion, a man who thought he could slap the label of “Christian” onto his empire and keep running the same game.

Remember when he went on record defending Mormons and Catholics, saying that they all had the same gospel? That should have been a massive red flag. But instead, Christians excused it. “He’s still learning! Give him time!” they cried.

Meanwhile, he was out there rubbing elbows with T.D. Jakes, Joel Osteen, and the usual prosperity gospel grifters, embracing false teachers like they were his spiritual mentors. Still, people insisted, “Trust the process!”

And then, what happened?

Fast forward to today. The mask is off. Kanye isn’t pretending anymore. The man who once sold himself as the voice of a Christian revival is now parading his nearly nude wife around like a piece of meat hanging in a butcher shop window, using her as a prop for the same depraved culture he was supposedly leaving behind.

Bianca Censori, his wife (for the time being), didn’t just happen to show up at the Grammys in a revealing outfit—this was a staged humiliation, a deliberate stunt, a vulgar display of his complete abandonment of anything resembling Christian decency.

She strutted onto the red carpet in a floor-length fur coat. And then, on cue, she dropped it. What was underneath? A sheer, nude-toned dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. This wasn’t fashion. It wasn’t art. It was exploitation, pure and simple.

And Kanye didn’t just allow this nor was he caught off guard—he orchestrated it. He turned his wife into an object, a living billboard advertising his totally depraved mind, while the cameras clicked away.

And what was the point of this tasteless spectacle? To mirror the cover of his Vultures 1 album—an album where Bianca’s bare backside is the centerpiece. Think about that. The same man who once stood on stage at Joel Osteen’s megachurch pretending to preach about Jesus is now using his own wife’s body as a promotional gimmick.

God will not be mocked.

Reports are now emerging that Kanye just lost a $20 million deal to perform in Tokyo. Apparently, Japanese investors took one look at his latest antics and recoiled, calling the stunt “creepy” and “misogynistic.”

Even in a secular, hyper-modern culture like Japan’s, the reaction was swift, they wanted nothing to do with him. And yet, somehow, there are still a handful of evangelicals who insist that Kanye is just a misunderstood artist, still on his faith journey, still somehow representing Christ.

This Kanye saga isn’t just a warning, it is an indictment. It is a flashing neon sign that reads:

Stop worshiping celebrities. Stop selling your discernment for a few soundbites. Stop thinking the church needs a superstar cultural spokesperson.

Because God doesn’t need Kanye West. He doesn’t need a rap mogul, a fashion icon, or a billionaire provocateur to advance His kingdom. He never has, and He never will.

The saddest part? Some people are still defending him, still clinging to the fantasy that somehow, somewhere beneath the vanity and the spectacle, Kanye is just a prodigal waiting to come home.

Maybe he is, only God knows. But until he shows fruit worthy of repentance, I refuse to play along with the illusion. Because I’ve seen this play before, and I already know how it ends.