Ronnie Winter needed a moment. And in 2025, a washed-up band grasping for relevance doesn’t get there by booking more shows. It gets there by lighting a match.

So, he did.

In a now-infamous Instagram reel, the frontman of The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus didn’t tease a tour, promote an album, or thank fans. He issued an ultimatum: if you’re a Christian who voted for Donald Trump, don’t come to my shows. Ever. “Refund your ticket. Forever. You are not welcome.”

And just like that, he made news for the first time in 15 years.

It was equal parts tantrum and TED Talk. He called his future concerts “woke propaganda,” bragged about splicing Christ’s words between guitar riffs, and promised a space safe from Trump-voting Christians. The kind of pronouncement that smells more like sour grapes than sanctification.

The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus isn’t headlining Lollapalooza. This isn’t U2 or Metallica. We're talking about a group whose last brush with mainstream relevance came when people were still logging into AOL.

This stunt is like the clerk at a dying Spencer’s Gifts screaming at shoppers: Get out if you don’t wear hemp!

No one even knew they were still around. Now we do, and it’s not flattering.

The irony here is that it is thick enough to butter toast. Winter wants fewer Trump voters at his shows, which means fewer ticket buyers. Fewer buyers mean fewer venues. Fewer venues mean less revenue. This means that soon, the only person attending his next show will be Ronnie, tuning his guitar for a soundcheck that never ends.

That’s not bravery. That’s career seppuku dressed in digital martyrdom.

Let’s be clear about the math: Donald Trump won over 74 million votes in 2020 and more in 2024. He earned the highest evangelical turnout of any Republican in history.

Winter just told a massive slice of that audience, one likely to enjoy rock music, nostalgia, and live shows, to take a hike.

This wasn’t some subtle dog whistle. It was a foghorn. And the result will be what every moral preener eventually learns: public scolding doesn’t pay the bills.

Thomas Sowell once said, “The beauty of doing nothing is that you can do it perfectly.” That’s where Winter would’ve been better off. If he’d simply stayed quiet, he’d still have a dozen fans buying shirts at the merch table.

Instead, he turned his band into a public art exhibit on how to alienate half the country with one reel.

In his follow-up video, Winter walked it back, sort of. He said it “wasn’t about Trump,” that he was just “fixing Christianity.” Said he got a message from a Christian family member that hurt him deeply, and the rant was how he coped.

So, let’s get this straight. Did a private message hurt your feelings, and your reaction was to nuke your fan base? That’s not a conviction. That’s emotional incontinence with a power chord.

If your faith tells you to preach love, but you only show contempt, you’re not teaching Christ. You’re acting out like a kid with a livestream.

Christ broke bread with zealots, tax collectors, adulterers, and doubters. He didn’t ask for party affiliations or poll results. He extended grace. He didn’t brandish shame like a guitar pick.

Winter’s version of Christianity is petty, tribal, and small. It’s the church of Cancel Culture in a Hot Topic hoodie.

We’re used to the entertainment world virtue-signaling itself into oblivion. But this one is especially galling because it weaponizes the language of faith.

Ronnie Winter isn’t some blue-haired barista spouting slogans from a TikTok bio. He’s a man invoking the name of Jesus to tell fellow believers they don’t belong and that they’re not Christian enough. Not the right kind. Not welcome.

It’s theological arrogance fused with political snobbery. And it’s precisely the kind of nonsense that turns seekers away from the church in droves.

You don’t win souls by setting fire to the pews.

The past offers plenty of lessons for musicians who turned concerts into confessionals.

Remember The Dixie Chicks? Their criticism of George W. Bush overseas during the Iraq War cost them dearly. They fell from country royalty to an industry cautionary tale in a matter of weeks.

They tried to rebrand as “The Chicks” years later, hoping the name swap would erase the stench of their collapse. But history remembers.

Or take Bud Light. One can blunder into political minefields and still survive. But when a company and a culture start sneering at its own customers, people walk. Sometimes, they run.

Ronnie Winter didn’t just flirt with that line. He dove over it, did a somersault, and yelled at the rest of us for not clapping.

If Winter thought this would galvanize support, the comment sections tell a different story.

Some said they’d refund their tickets with pleasure. Others mocked the irony of being “banned” from a show they’d never pay to see anyway. One user joked, “We thought you were already retired.”

One of the more damning replies? A screenshot shows Spotify removing the band from a playlist altogether. That’s what happens when your message is louder than your music.

When fans tune out, the silence isn’t peaceful. It’s permanent.

This isn’t a left vs. right fight. It’s about basic decency. About respect. About knowing your role as an artist, not a high priest.

No one’s asking musicians to be apolitical. But the moment you make your concerts ideological echo chambers, you reduce your art to a pamphlet. And nobody pays money to read a pamphlet with bad lighting and distorted pedals.

There’s a difference between standing for something and stomping on everyone else’s toes while you do it.

What Ronnie Winter did wasn’t a protest. It was a performance. It was a temper tantrum pretending to be testimony.

Ronnie Winter may have imagined himself as a righteous prophet clearing the temple. What he delivered instead was a late-night rant in an empty room, yelling at people who’d already left.

He didn’t offer hope. He didn’t provide healing. He offered a refund.

There’s a reason Christ washed feet and dined with sinners. He knew what so many in culture don’t: people don’t come to faith through condemnation. They come through an invitation.

Winter claims he wants to “fix Christianity.” He might start by fixing the mirror.

Until then, he’ll keep getting exactly what he asked for: fewer fans, fewer shows, and far fewer people willing to pay to be scolded.

If you want to make music, make music. But if you want to preach, remember what’s written in James: “Let not many of you become teachers, for you will be judged more strictly.”

That line comes without a chorus. And no encore.

They’re spending your money like it’s Monopoly cash. We’re calling them out. Join PJ Media VIP and get 60% off with code FIGHT because accountability begins with truth-tellers like you.