Eunuchs in the Church: A Modern Crisis

Woe, Bride of Christ, who makes herself a Babylonian whore, who lives in a Sodomitic palace with eunuchs as servants and worships the emasculated sanctuary!

Hear, you towers of the Vatican, hear, you domes of St. Peter's!

I, the watchman on the wall, the prophet of the last night, raise my voice like Jeremiah over Jerusalem, but this is no longer a temple—this is Babylon, who wears purple, and Sodom, who cuts off his own testicles.

Behold the Church—once bride, now whore! She sits on seven hills, yet her thighs are spread for the kings of the earth, not in the flesh, no—in the spirit of subservience. Her chalice is golden, yet filled with the juice of barrenness.

She drinks the wine of "mercy" and calls it blessing, while her sons castrate themselves. Woe, woe, great city! Your priests were lions—now they are tomcats, purring instead of roaring. Your altars were battlefields—now they are beauty salons. You have turned the sword of the spirit against yourself, cutting off your own fertility, calling it "synodalism," calling it "progress."

Hear the voice of Sodom in your halls! Where once angels sought the righteous, they now find eunuchs in cassocks, their voices breaking, not in prayer, but in the chorus of self-denial.

The boys who were once altar servers now stand before mirrors, swallowing hormones like communion wafers, opening their chests like a tabernacle in which no presence of God dwells—only the emptiness of self-emasculation.

And the Church blesses it. She lays her hand on the wound and says, "Peace be with you." She calls blood a "rainbow," the scar "identity," the death of fertility "life."

She has become the Whore of Babylon, selling her own children—not to strangers, but to the lie within her own womb.

Behold, the eunuch stands in the sanctuary! No longer a king, no priest, no father. Only a shadow in silk, who neither begets nor fights. His voice is high and sweet, yet it carries no seed.

His hands are soft, yet they hold no sword. He is the perfect image of the new world—sterile, safe, silent.

Woe to you, Church, that emasculates itself! You have opened the gates of Sodom, not through the sins of others—but through your own cowardice.

You have brought the Whore of Babylon into your bed, not through adultery with the world—but through self-betrayal. You have taught your sons to hate themselves, to cut themselves, to kill themselves—and you call it love. Hear the judgment that is coming! Not fire from heaven—for fire would consume what is fruitful. No, the judgment is silence. The silence of empty seminaries. The silence of unbaptized children. The silence of men who no longer know how to be fathers.

The silence of the church that has made itself a eunuch—and is now neither bride nor mother, but a tomb filled with incense.

Repent before the last rooster crows! Tear down the rainbow flags! Spit out the pills! Take your sons and daughters from the clinics of lies!

Put down the scalpel you have raised against yourselves! For the Lord does not speak to eunuchs—he speaks to men. Arise, you remnants of men! Before Babylon falls—and with her, the last light of fertility. Before Sodom consumes itself—and Gomorrah dances in the ashes of the barren.

Woe, woe, emasculated Rome! In one hour your judgment will come. And your name will be: Eunuchus Babylonis.