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The difference between influencers and charismatics in the Church.
If you use social media, you see the following scene play out at least several times each year. A celebrity announces that they are exploring Catholicism. Their conversion quickly becomes a public event with numerous media outlets keeping track of their religious journey. Friends text you giddily to say, “Did you see that about so-and-so!?”
The apps, accounts, and platforms invariably announce: “Did you see that so-and-so went to Mass on the 14th Sunday of Ordinary Time?” Or perhaps, “They’re listening to this [or that] podcast!” “They’ll surely be baptized or received into the Church any day now.”
One Sunday, an image appears on this celebrity’s account: look, a new Catholic! The celebrity is shown wearing a white baptismal gown or receiving First Communion. Again, social media explodes. Look, celebrity X or Y is now Catholic!
In the days that follow, articles begin to appear analyzing the celebrity’s conversion. Pundits for a day announce, if this or that celebrity is entering the Church, then a revival is at hand. Catholic influencers and app entrepreneurs wonder if they can get said person to appear on a podcast, a radio show, or maybe they could be featured during an Advent or Lent campaign. The celebrity is often taken up into the spectacle. The transition from neophyte to theological expertise unfolds in a single media cycle (and on social media that means a matter of days).
Now, one might argue that there is nothing particular to worry about relative to such celebrity conversions. For the Roman Catholic Church, a famous convert is good news. It’s very different from the coverage of the sexual abuse crisis of the twentieth century or the announcement that yet another diocese has declared bankruptcy and is selling off as much property as possible. Can’t we enjoy for forty-eight hours the fact that the Gospel is attractive enough to woo a celebrity to bend the knee to Jesus Christ? Can’t this celebrity then become him or herself an evangelist, announcing the Good News to a much larger audience?
The root of the problem, in my assessment, isn’t the conversion of this or that celebrity. Rather, it’s that many in the Church have adopted an approach to evangelization that is more about the spectacle of celebrity marketing than the sweet odor of sanctity. We have taken the worst excesses of marketing and applied them to preaching the Gospel. And in doing so, the United States Church risks reducing the Gospel to yet another product rather than the eternal life promised by Jesus in the Gospels.
The Sweet Rhetoric of Sanctity
In book IV of his On Teaching Christianity (De doctrina christiana), Augustine concedes that preachers need to use rhetoric. If we lived in an unfallen world, we would be able to communicate, according to Augustine, without rhetoric. Truth could be spoken plainly, the human being free to give his or her assent to what is proclaimed.
But in a fallen world, there’s no other option than to use rhetoric for the preaching of the Gospel. Such rhetoric should be attuned to the language of Scripture; it should never manipulate the affections of the listener; and it should never lie. Rhetoric should be used in such a way as to emphasize the sweetness of the Gospel, making it delightful for the listener.
Augustinian rhetoric is focused on sweetness rather than spectacle. And most notably, it is connected to the act of contemplation. The preacher speaks not to garner attention to himself but because he has something to say based on his reading of Sacred Scripture. He longs for his listener to connect with the story of divine love. And the preacher knows that the soul often must be cultivated to recognize the gift of this love in the poor, mutilated words of the Gospel.
Now, don’t get me wrong—Augustine was famous. People throughout North Africa came to hear him preach in the basilica church at Hippo. But he was intentional in his preaching to always point away from himself toward the praise of God. Even his Confessions (which are about Augustine) employ rhetoric to lead the reader toward praise of God—forget about Augustine, he’s consistently communicating, this story could be about you and God.
The irony of sanctity is that it often leads to a certain fame around the saint. Tens of millions of people each year trek to Rome to pay homage to the relics of St. Peter and St. Paul. The sanctity of Francis of Assisi led everyone throughout Europe to know of his marvelous works. The funeral of St. André Bessette, the Miracle Worker of Montreal, was attended by over a million people. St. Teresa of Calcutta was as well known (perhaps better) than politicians of her day.
The charisms of saints are attractive, leading men and women to want to be in the presence of this saint, even after their death. There is something about the sweetness of their lives that attract people. But the key to their “fame” is their pursuit of sanctity. Many of the desert fathers and mothers wanted to be alone for the sake of pursuing holiness. But their sanctity led many young men and women to flock to the desert, wanting to imitate them. Holiness was the rhetoric.
Many in the Church have adopted an approach to evangelization that is more about the spectacle of celebrity marketing than the sweet odor of sanctity. We have taken the worst excesses of marketing and applied them to preaching the Gospel.
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The Rise of an Influencer Culture of Evangelization
The art of rhetoric, as practiced by Augustine, has been transformed in the twentieth century. It is no longer speech, but image, that is the focus of persuasion. Mass advertising possesses its own rhetoric, intended to persuade the viewer to buy this or that product. Apple releases a Christmas commercial each year that tells the viewer through emotionally laden imagery, “Hey, if your kid gets an iPhone, they will make holiday videos that will document your Christmas. You won’t lose your child to social media. She’ll find her true vocation.” The truth of the claim doesn’t matter (your kid will probably spend most of the time watching TikTok dances). What matters is that you’re persuaded at a root psychological level. If I get an iPhone for my kid, our whole family will grow closer.
This is the rhetoric of our day, more dangerous than the speech of ancient rhetoricians who had but the loosest connection to truth in their oratory. How so? Whereas ancient rhetoric was presented quite plainly, the spectacle of modern advertising is more subtle. The consumer is inundated with images that shape our affections in a way that is pre-rational. We are influenced to believe: If every kid has an iPhone, and mine doesn’t, they’ll miss out on so much. If I don’t pony up for the latest Taylor Swift concert, she or he will miss out on the event of a lifetime. If this TikTok celebrity wears this brand or product, what’s wrong with my child doing the same?
The question that the Church must ask itself: Could a modern-day Augustine take up this kind of rhetoric, using it for the sake of the Gospel? I am unconvinced that such rhetoric is appropriate to preaching the Gospel.
First, rather than present truth in a way that allows for the freedom of assent, this marketing strategy tends to manipulate. Think about your inbox. If yours is like mine, then you regularly receive marketing emails from prominent apostolates declaring something like, “The world is going to hell in a handbasket. But if you subscribe to this series, all will be well.”
Okay, the world is probably going to hell in a handbasket. If you’re a reader of sacred history, that’s been the trend since that first bite of a forbidden fruit. But the solution to this problem is the same as it’s always been: the pursuit of hidden holiness. St. Francis of Assisi didn’t launch a podcast that would change your life (while also charging people for exclusive access if you donated to Patreon). He gave up everything, kissed a leper, conformed himself to Christ, and invited young people to follow him. They did, and the world became more heavenly because of St. Francis’ embodied witness: he didn’t start a program, he instead gave his very person to Christ.
Second, such rhetoric relies on what we popularly call Catholic influencers. Such influencers might be celebrities who are Catholic or Catholics acting like celebrities. The coin of the realm in this influencer culture is “branding.” I must be this kind of person, tweet out these kinds of things, post these sorts of photos so that I can grow “my brand.”
Now, an influencer culture will attract eyeballs. But it contradicts the Augustinian principle that rhetoric must be at service to the truth. Whether it’s Catholic mommy bloggers or trad “dudes” who post images communicating that Catholic life is perfect—if they do so—they are lying. Raising kids faithfully is hard, and it’s not rainbows and bunnies. But the brand demands that the difficult dimensions of the Gospel are not shared.
Further, life of the influencer tends to be conflated with the brand they have become. The influencer may play Jesus on a television show, but he isn’t Jesus. He’s a human being, an actor. And based on my general experience with humanity, if you look closer, he’s also a sinner like the rest of us. This kind of influencer culture risks turning ordinary human beings into idols. When they are revealed as the sinners they are, what happens to those who have followed them as if they are the second coming of our Lord?
Third, the danger of this influencer culture is that the Gospel becomes yet another product in a crowded marketplace where attention span is at a premium. You like this app? Great, then you love the Gospel. The app is boring to you now? I guess it’s time to look elsewhere.
Rather than invite persons into those practices that lead to holiness such as daily prayer and friendship with the poor, apostolates are pushed into launching the newest thing for the sake of keeping eyeballs glued to the screen, ears listening to the podcast, or subscriptions growing to prove ROI (return on investment). The Gospel must become ever new and newer. Marketing campaigns demand it.
A Way Forward?
This essay may seem rather grim about the prospects of (post)modern rhetoric for the preaching of the Gospel. And, well, it is. This kind of rhetoric, employed by Catholic influencer culture, bypasses the thing that has always been most persuasive about Christianity: its mundane, incarnational, and Eucharistic nature. It confuses spectacle for sanctity, followers for fellowship, and celebrity
for canonization.
The simple truth is that there is no secret strategy to the preaching of the Gospel: it’s the everyday work of witness, of commitment to Christ’s life in those mundane spaces where most of us live out the hidden drama of our lives.
These hidden stories may be the kind of thing that would be more attractive to many of us rather than listening to another Catholic celebrity, perhaps one baptized fifteen minutes ago, reveal the secrets of the kingdom to us.
For the secret of the kingdom has always been found in the hidden places.
