We don’t flinch at sin. We speak Christ into it.
The ring light clicks on. The camera lens glints. Somewhere, in a room too small for this much sorrow, a young man or woman opens their body to a world that calls it freedom.
They say it’s their choice. They say they’re empowered. They say it’s just content. It’s just another stream in the algorithmic river. But what they don’t say is what it costs. Not just money. Not even dignity. But something older. Deeper. The sense of being held, not displayed. Loved, not consumed.
We don’t need statistics to know what’s happening. We feel it. The hunger in our bones. The ache that rises every time the Body is bought and sold like meat behind glass. What was once sacred has become content. What was once private is now currency.
And who speaks to him? Who speaks for her? Who preaches Christ to the boy and girl behind the screens?
OnlyFans is not just a website. It’s not just a trend. It’s a temple that is built on the lie that selling yourself is empowerment, that exposure equals intimacy, that strangers on screens can satisfy the soul.
Bonnie Blue, once called the top creator on the platform, earned millions by bartering flesh for likes. But she didn’t hide what it cost her. She has said in interviews that despite earning everything she thought she wanted, it cost her what mattered most. That’s not a confession. That’s a lament. A psalm from the bottom of the pit.
And she’s not alone.
There are thousands, maybe millions, of men and women and boys and girls living that same grief. Branded. Displayed. Applauded for self-erasure. The world celebrates them. But Christ weeps.
And the churches? Too often we say nothing. We clutch our pearls or look away or post polite warnings. We forget that Jesus did not flinch when the prostitute wept at his feet. He let her touch him. He called her clean.
So let’s say it plainly: Some things can’t be put back.
You cannot un-show your nakedness.
You cannot reclaim your innocence with filters.
You cannot unsell the parts of yourself that have been bought.
But here’s the scandal of the Gospel:
You can be raised. Your virtue returned, your virginity restored.
Not through forgetting, but through resurrection.
Because Christ didn’t come for the unblemished. He didn’t bleed for the polished and pure. He came for the woman who thinks she’s too far gone. He came for the man who can’t look his daughter in the eye. He came for the ruined. For the sold. For the ashamed.
“This is My Body,” he says.
Not a product. Not a performance. A gift.
The OnlyFans world says, “Your body is a tool.”
Christ says, “Your body is a temple.”
The world says, “You are your content.”
Christ says, “You are My beloved.”
And in the waters of baptism, he makes that more than poetry. He makes it true.
And so, the Church is not here to scold. We are not museum guards for moral artifacts. We are midwives to the reborn. We are called to go where the wounds are. And the wounds right now are deep. They are open wounds, weeping in the hearts of young men and women who have been told their worth is in their followers, their sex appeal, their monetized vulnerability.
The church is called to become the place where the lights are warm, not harsh.
We must preach a better Word.
Not a clean-up-your-life gospel. Not a someday-you’ll-be-worthy gospel.
We preach Christ crucified. Christ for the broken. Christ for the commodified.
“Do not call unclean what I have made clean,” the Lord said to Peter. And he says it to us now.
The boy or girl who has been bought and sold is not beyond grace. They are the ones grace runs to. They are the ones Christ stands before and says, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”
We dare not turn her away. We dare not speak in hushed tones. We must look them in the eyes and tell them what no algorithm ever will:
“You are not what you’ve done. You are not what’s been done to you. You are his.”
Virginity, in Christ, is not a tally. It’s a miracle. Not the absence of sex, but the presence of God in the body. Not something to protect at all costs, but something to raise from the dead.
We don’t preach second chances. We preach new creation. The kind that grows out of tombs. The kind that smells like forgiveness and rain.
OnlyFans may have bought their bodies. But it cannot own their souls.
Christ does.
And in him, what was shamed becomes holy.
What was sold becomes sacred.
What was thrown away is gathered and blessed and broken like bread, and given back.
We live in a world of watchers. A world where people pay to see strangers fall apart. But Christ is the One who came to see us. To know us. To heal us.
The church is called to become the place where the lights are warm, not harsh. Where the Word is stronger than shame. Where the altar rail is wide enough for the trafficked, the exposed, the porn star, and the preacher alike.
We don’t flinch at sin. We speak Christ into it.
And for the man and woman behind the screen, for the boy and girl who thought selling themselves was the only way to be seen, we say this:
You are not forgotten.
You are not forsaken.
You are not a brand.
You are his.
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