We Told Gen Z to Build a Platform. Now They Don't Know How to Build a Soul

A love letter to a generation drowning in content but starving for formation.

You posted about serving at the homeless shelter. Got 247 likes. Felt warm inside, like you’d done something good.

Then three hours later, you checked again to see if anyone important noticed. Your former youth pastor. That worship leader you follow. The girl from small group who always seems so put together.

You checked who viewed your story… driven by curiosity and anxiety. This strange mixture of “I want to do things for Jesus” and, “I want to be seen doing things for Jesus.”

Welcome to discipleship in 2025, where your DMs are your quiet time, your engagement rate is your anointing, and if you didn’t document your Bible reading on your story... did it actually count as Spiritual formation?

Christian social media has become a spiritual crime scene. We are both the victims and the perpetrators. Fingerprints on the feed. Blood in the captions.

Here’s the thing nobody wants to say out loud:

Nobody wants to build their actual soul anymore. We just want to build our personal brands.

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I Have Something To Say About This

Me (Left), Podcasting with my friend Prof Gerry Breshears (Western Seminary)

Before we go any further, you should know: I’m not some outside observer throwing rocks at the Christian influencer machine. I was the machine. Or at least, I helped build it.

See, I used to be a content strategy director for an entire network of somewhere around 1000 churches.

I wasn’t in it for the algorithms or the engagement metrics.

I was in it because I loved Jesus and I loved content. Like, genuinely loved it.

I loved YouTube videos. I loved podcasts. I loved the thrill of reading a blog post or listening to a sermon that hit me in the exact place I needed to hear it.

I remember being a young youth pastor, watching churches that had multi-camera DSLR setups with multiple angles, and thinking, Wow. That’s beautiful. That makes me want to pay attention.

I didn’t just consume content. I made it. I built an entire Christian podcast network of 40+ shows from the ground up.

I spent hours learning production, mixing audio, writing scripts. I was obsessed with making beautiful, deep content… trying to bring the theology of The Bible Project to the production quality of This American Life… because I believed it mattered.

For me, creativity and faith weren’t separate... they floated in and out of one another. For us “tortured Christian artist” types… creativity is a way to worship. A way to point others to God. I wasn’t just making content as a job. I was making it because I believed it could actually change people.

And I believed in it. I thought we were using these tools to reach people for Jesus. That the Kingdom could be built one viral post at a time.

But here’s what nobody tells you about content: it’s a beautiful yet cruel mistress. Most Christian content creators pour everything they have into their work... and yet it stays in the margins.

You labor for months, refine every detail, believe God is in it, and then... crickets.

I recall one year spending months working on a video series about the Kingdom of God. It was a topic burning in my bones and I had a lot to say on it.

I pulled the best content from my sermons, filmed lessons, slaved over the editing, the music.

Then I brought together a group of my podcast listeners and former students from different parts of the world for a theology class on Zoom. We recorded those discussions and turned them into video content to pair with my lessons.

This was good content. Theologically solid, carefully crafted, real people wrestling with real theology.

I was trying to actually teach people something that mattered.

When I finally dropped it, it barely got any views.

I remember checking the stats weekly… but after 6 months the videos had barely garnered 25 views.

I remember feeling numb. Empty. Like months of hard work was just... flushed down the digital toilet.

And here’s what broke me: in the same moment I was feeling this… I swiped up and saw some celebrity pastor in a designer shirt and skinny jeans posing with praying hands.

The caption? “Too blessed to be stressed. #AllToGod”

10,000 likes. Hundreds of comments with entire theological discussions happening in the comment section.

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. 😂

I just sat there thinking, This system is absolutely ridiculous.

How the heck are any of us normies supposed to make a difference?

It was around that time God started putting a burden on my heart.

Not an audible voice, but a quiet, persistent weight:

Just because you’re good at content doesn’t mean you’re called to it 24/7.

Just because you’ve had success in the past doesn’t mean I require it to be part of your ministry strategy now.

For you personally, I’m calling you to double down on local ministry.

Go teach, go preach to a room of 12 students the same way you would a conference of 12,000.

And that invitation... it wrecked me.

Because I realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in being seen.

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The Pressure We Put On Each Other

There was a season where I was preaching regular sermons at my School of Discipleship (as well as guest speaking for several local youth groups), running a podcast that involved tons of writing and production, overseeing a podcast network, and working a full-time job.

Between preaching, writing for social media, and podcasting, a huge chunk of my week was given to content creation.

I was exhausted but committed… I can honestly say my motivation was not to “build a personal brand,” but to be the best steward of my gifts and calling as I could. I knew that the things I created helped people draw closer to Jesus. So I was motivated to create those things constantly.

One day, I sat my frazzled self down with some pastors and told them everything I was juggling.

I was looking for some encouragement, advice on how to pace myself, and perhaps, deep down, I was looking for someone to say to me “Hey man… you’re doing great work, but don’t forget to rest. God wants to do work IN you before He does it through you.”

Do you know what response I got?

“Yeah, that’s cool. Have you thought about doing a YouTube channel? You should really maximize the content, bro.”

“Have you thought about TikTok? You should be posting more reels of your sermons.”

“Bro why aren’t you filming your school of discipleship classes? If you really want to reach the next Gen you gotta be doing video my dude.”

“Why aren’t you on Patreon yet? Could be the answer to your financial struggles dude.”

When I sheepishly tried to explain that I was running my own independent ministry where I was crafting sermons, writing/editing/producing podcasts, creating graphics, scheduling social posts, and overseeing a podcast network, all on my own without any staff or support… while ALSO working as a full time content strategy director for a church network, I was met with grunts and shrugs.

I was one person doing what many churches need an entire team of people to do… and yet it didn’t feel worthy.

I remember feeling so deflated. Like no amount of faithfulness was ever going to be enough unless I was omnipresent across every platform.

While I appreciated these guys trying to push me to be more creative, I was also frustrated that they weren’t celebrating what God was doing through the work I was already overwhelmingly busy at… nor was there much concern for my encroaching burnout.

The reality is they were pushing me to keep up with the Joneses of Christian content creation.

To do what everyone else was doing.

And if I felt that pressure as someone who’d been in ministry for years, imagine what Gen Z Christians feel.

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The Fast Track from Conversion to Content

I’ve seen students who got saved like… two weeks ago. Haven’t even been baptized yet.

And they already feel the pressure to become Christian social media influencers, making reels where they try to teach the Bible to other Gen Z folk.

On one hand, I love their zeal. That fire is beautiful.

But on the other hand, I’m just sitting there thinking, What is this culture doing to us?

Why do we feel the need to constantly churn out content when we might not even be in the best position to be making it?

I remember hearing Tim Mackie from The Bible Project talk about his time as a pastor at both Door of Hope and Blackhawk Church.

Tim is in his 40s now, but he was reflecting on his 20s and 30s as a young pastor. He recently said something that floored me:

“I can see now with more clarity of my life in a pastoral role becoming what I’ve just called ‘disintegrated.’

When you are teaching biblical literature that’s so profound and so beautiful and challenging, but when that’s your job... you very quickly outpace the actual character growth of your own life with all of the cool and challenging things you’re taking a community through as a teacher.

And so it’s actually a challenge... if I was back in full-time pastoral ministry, this would be the thing that I would be going to mentors to try and figure out what to do with.

As you go throughout the Bible, there’s all kinds of radical challenges and things and ways that we’re called to grow.

And over time, I just found I was leading and trying to compel and persuade and urge people to follow Jesus in ways that I’m not actually really doing in my life.

But because it’s your job, you gotta keep teaching them... next week, next week.

And I can now see that had I been in pastoral ministry for another 10 years, that would have led to some real splits in my character… and that would be concerning to me and, I hope, to the people I worked with.

Being able to recognize that disintegrated nature when it’s rearing its head in a pastor’s life... that’s a big deal, I think. And it’s something that I’m guessing isn’t unique to my experience of being a pastor.

I know this isn’t true in every church tradition, but it was in mine... I had to constantly ask people to get in my business. There was something about being one of the main teaching pastors that everybody just assumed I was doing fine.

I had to actively ask certain people:

‘Hey, I need you to not care about who I am in the church. I just need you to care that I’m following Jesus and ask me difficult questions.’

And I had to constantly ask people to do that, and even when I would ask them to do that, they wouldn’t do it very well.

And to me, that is huge.

I can now look back and say… that’s a problem.

And so finding a spiritual director for me... who, that’s his ministry... to be the guy who gets into the business of other pastors. I had to find somebody who, that’s their job to do that for me.”

Sheesh. So convicting!

I was an avid Tim Mackie sermon binger when I was a youth pastor. I still listen to him frequently, he has been an inspiration… to me, Tim is the epitome of wisdom and love for Jesus and Scripture.

And yet, this guy who I view in such high regard is confessing that when he was a young preacher, there were times he was teaching a room full of people lessons he himself had not learned… and fighting to get people in the Church to care more about his soul than his content delivery.

If Tim Mackie struggles with this, what does that say about the 19-year-old with 10K followers teaching about spiritual warfare when they haven’t even had the time to battle their own inner demons?

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“I Think I Need To Build A Platform”

I took a young guy out to lunch recently. Twenty years old. Great dude. Don’t worry, that’s not him in the photo lol.

He’d just preached his first sermon at his college group and loved the experience.

I was proud of him. “Bro, way to go!! Way to be obedient and step into faithfulness.”

But as we were talking, I could tell he’d gotten a taste for the excitement that comes with preaching and teaching.

He said, “Yeah, man, I’ve just got this feeling like maybe I need to seek out more opportunities to do teaching and preaching. Like maybe I need to, I don’t know... build a platform or something?”

Instant flashback to every young millennial youth pastor I’ve ever met… Including myself.

This feeling of: I got on stage and said some things and people responded positively, so now I need to build a platform.

“Maybe I need to build a platform.”

I’d never heard anyone from my generation phrase it that way.

But it made sense coming from a Gen Z guy.

Platform is the water they’ve been swimming in since PewDiePie…

And the dark reality is this: Baby-Boomers bought the pool, and Millennials like me filled it!!

Oh boy… did we fill it.

Gen Z has grown up with constant access to technology… watching young people build massive audiences for themselves.

Of course it’s their second language.

Here’s what broke my heart: after preaching his first sermon, his thought wasn’t I need more theological training, or, I need more hands-on ministry experience in the trenches with real people, or, I need to find a mentor asap!

It was “I need to build a platform.”

And this wasn’t an indictment against him. He’s not a prideful guy. He’s actually extremely humble. One of the most humble young men I know—not flashy or showboating at all.

This is just the product of the Christian culture we’re living in now. A culture that says “if you want to matter, go put your face on a screen and prove your worth by follow count.”

I told him, “Brother… you’re just getting started. Don’t rush to be seen. Take time to know Jesus… really know Him. Find mentors who care more about your soul than your stage presence. Let them disciple you. Not use you. Not recruit you into their personal brand machine. But actually form you.”

I said it because I’ve watched too many young guys already burn out.

Hired at megachurches for their creative instincts. Cheered on as visionary, fresh, talented. But beneath the applause, it was exploitation with a Sunday smile.

They spent the most tender years of their spiritual life buried in the content mines—underpaid, over-leveraged, spiritually alone. Begging for guidance. Getting quotas instead. Told to “produce more, complain less.”

Smiling through clenched teeth as they were forced to work late to meet another arbitrary last minute deadline. Hearing “I can’t believe we get to do this!” while quietly thinking, I can’t believe this is what we’ve become.

They made their pastors look like prophets, all while dying inside.

No margin for prayer. No time for actual community. No real mentors assigned to them. No room to wrestle with God.

Just “clip the sermon, build the website, post the reel, push the brand.”

I continued to urge my young friend to pursue faithfulness over flash. I told him:

“Dude… why don’t you volunteer in a ministry that is not flashy… one that maybe won’t have you on the stage every week or build up your Instagram portfolio, but will give you hands-on experience ministering to real people going through real things. I think that would be epic for you… and if I could go back in time, it’s what I would tell myself too!”

To this humble young man’s credit, he took my advice. He has leaned into quiet, faithful ministry work while prioritizing his own spiritual growth. I am proud of him.

But I wonder how many others got the opposite counsel from leaders.

How many were told, “Yeah, bro, go build that platform. You’ve got the gift. Don’t waste it.”

Don’t waste it.

Keep grinding.

Don’t fail to live up to your own potential.

Don’t be irrelevant. Be somebody.

I wonder how many of you reader are drowning in this water right now?

It’s dark waters I know well and am glad I made it out of alive.

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We’re Excited About The Wrong Things

Photo by Chris on Unsplash

Here’s something I think we need to confess as a church culture:

We are far more excited about the 20-year-old who hasn’t done much to develop his character and integrity… but is really good at hype, really passionate, really engaging with a crowd, and can preach a fire sermon...

...than we are about the 26-year-old who has spent the last six years quietly, humbly, without fanfare, devoted to growing into the image of Christ.

Learning His character, learning His teachings, volunteering without a platform or a stage in small, humble ministries.

Repenting of sin and growing in obedience, but not documenting it through Instagram posts every step of the way.

We are more excited about the kid who can drop a fire sermon, or has the voice of the next Forrest Frank, or has tons of HD-pics of them standing on a stage with a microphone than we are about the kid with less (or even awkward!) stage presence who’s been training like a prizefighter in the background to become a man or woman of God.

When we ask the question, “Who do we want on our team? Who do we want to help lead?” we often go for the person with the most charisma, even if their character hasn’t caught up yet.

The humble servant? He doesn’t get asked to teach or lead anything. He gets asked to run the sound booth.

And that should terrify us.

Because it begs the question: when we make disciples… what are we discipling people into? What are we trying to make?

We’ve created a church culture that values performance over formation.

Visibility over faithfulness.

A culture that celebrates the brand more than the soul.

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What Ananias & Sapphira Were Really Doing

In Acts 5, right around the formation of the early church… two Christians named Ananias and Sapphira sold property and gave some of the money to the church... but told everyone they gave all of it.

They wanted to look radically generous. They wanted the apostles to notice. They wanted to be known as “those people”, the sacrificial ones, the all-in ones, the ones everyone talked about.

They were, in effect, checking their story views. Waiting to see if their brand was growing.

And God struck them dead on the spot.

Brutal? Yes. Terrifyingly yes.

But maybe that’s because God saw what we can’t see anymore: the virus of spiritual performance and hypocrisy was so deadly that if He didn’t quarantine it immediately, it would infect the entire church.

Fast forward two thousand years. That virus?

It broke quarantine. It went viral.

And now we swim in it.

The modern world, where loaves and fishes aren’t multiplied unless someone films it in vertical video.

We used to talk about Pharisees blowing trumpets in the streets when they gave to the poor. Now we’ve got ring lights for that.

The tragedy isn’t just that young Christians are branding their ministries. It’s that they’re being discipled by the internet to believe branding is ministry. That curation is character. That the platform is the pulpit.

That if the Spirit moves, it better move in HD, with captions and a lo-fi beat underneath.

But the Kingdom of God is not a brand. It’s a cross. It’s a carpenter who walked away from the crowds to pray in lonely places. It’s a Messiah who told His disciples to keep quiet about miracles. Who said, “When you fast… don’t let anyone know.” Imagine trying to post that.

Your secret prayer does not “fail to count.” It counts more than we dare to hope.

It is heard in the throne room of heaven. It is incense.

It is ammunition in a war invisible to the TikTok feed.

Young preacher, if your numbers never surge… if your sermons are preached to twelve sleepy students and not twelve thousand streaming strangers… that still might be more faithful than the man whose clip went viral because he said “sexy faith” in a sermon title.

Beware the algorithm. It is a liar. It baptizes pride. It canonizes performance.

It makes you forget that you are not called to go viral, but to die daily.

The devil doesn’t care if you’re talking about Jesus—as long as you’re worshiping your own reflection.

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We Lost The Hidden Ways

We have lost the hidden ways we were taught to follow Jesus.

We were told not to let our left hand know what our right was doing. Now both hands are busy holding the phone.

And it’s not because you’re evil. It’s because you’re exhausted. You’re trying to prove you’re real in a world that treats people like fog unless they can be photographed.

You are growing up in a system that threatens your financial stability with your ability to monetize your very existence.

So you post the missions trip. You share the prayer walk. You turn the whisper of obedience into a slideshow.

Not because you want applause... but because you’re terrified of disappearing.

Because in this age, if a disciple obeys in the forest and nobody hears it, did it even happen?

Let me say with an older brother’s clarity and a heart of someone who’s asked these same questions: Yes, it did.

Heaven noticed. The angels cheered.

And God, who sees in secret, smiled the kind of smile that makes the devil wince.

But you… you were never meant to monetize your soul.

So, return to the hidden ways. Let your generosity be unseen. Let your prayers go unposted. Let your obedience echo in eternity, not in analytics.

There is a glory only found in obscurity. It is the signature of saints.

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The System Itself Is The Sickness

Imagine trying to write a love letter while standing on stage, with a crowd waiting to either clap or frown in disapproval after every sentence.

That is what modern discipleship feels like.

You are trying to love God... with a camera pointed at your face.

Because you’ve been trained to be seen.

And it’s not entirely your fault. The system rewards visibility.

The grid is designed for performance. The machine doesn’t care about your soul. It cares about your output.

The quiet things—the things that make you holy—aren’t clickable.

So your fasting gets forgotten. Your repentance feels irrelevant. Your secret prayers feel like wasted air.

And slowly, subtly, the algorithm teaches you theology: that intimacy is irrelevant unless it’s scalable. That impact only matters if it’s tracked. That your calling is only real if it goes viral.

But let me tell you what the saints knew, what the martyrs burned for, what the prophets preached under starless skies:

You do not need an audience to follow Jesus.

You do not need metrics to be faithful.

You do not need to optimize your soul.

In fact, the most dangerous thing you can do in this culture is disappear into obedience.

It is a quiet revolution.

It is an act of war against a world that wants to turn your soul into a spectacle.

The system is sick because it cannot imagine love without applause.

So let your life confuse it.

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The Tragedy

The tragedy is this: young Christians are spending the most vital years of their lives curating themselves for platforms and audiences, cramming their hope and calling into content strategies, reducing themselves to brand narratives.

God, the Kingdom they are missing.

And here’s what kills me: it’s not making them more faithful.

It’s making them miserable.

Because you can’t platform your way into holiness.

Perform deep enough and you don’t find God.

You disappear into the performance.

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The Model of Christ: Kenosis

“He made himself nothing, taking the very nature of a servant... he made himself of no reputation.” - Philippians 2:7

If Jesus were here today, He’d be the guy without a social media account.

Wouldn’t be making reels.

He’d be out on the streets looking people in the eye.

Pouring Himself out. Kenosis.

No reputation.

Jesus didn’t protect His reputation. He laid it down like a lamb on the altar.

He didn’t perform for admiration. He bled for you in silence.

He could have walked off that cross like a flex, but He stayed... like a servant.

That kind of self-giving sacrifice is strength the world can’t comprehend.

And it’s strength you are called to.

Not the strength to build a platform.

The strength to lay it down.

Not the power to be seen.

The courage to be hidden.

Not the glory of being noticed.

The freedom of being known by God alone.

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A Liturgy for the Unbranded

So what does that actually look like? How do you follow Jesus in a world that demands spiritual performance?

Here are some practices for off-screen discipleship. A rule of life for the algorithm-exhausted:

1. Fast from posting your spiritual life.

Not forever. But pick a season (Lent, Advent, a month, a week) and don’t document your Bible reading, your prayers, your service, your generosity.

Let it be between you and God alone.

See what happens when nobody’s watching.

2. Serve without telling anyone.

Find a way to give, serve, or love that cannot be posted.

Volunteer at a place that doesn’t take photos of you while you’re crying during worship.

Give anonymously.

Help someone who will never post about you helping them.

Let Jesus be the only one who sees.

3. Delete the apps (even just for a day).

Not as a flex. As an exorcism.

Remove Instagram, TikTok, X, whatever platform has hooks in your soul.

Even for 24 hours.

Notice what happens to your mind.

To your prayers.

To your capacity to be present.

4. Pray in secret. Actually secret.

Jesus said, “When you pray, go into your room, close the door, and pray to your Father who is unseen.”

Not your prayer closet aesthetic.

Not your journaling setup.

Not your morning routine content.

Just you and God.

Hidden. Unperformed. Unposted.

5. Find a real community, not an audience.

Find 3-5 people who know your actual life (your struggles, your sins, your doubts) and commit to walking with them in the way of Jesus.

No content. No audience.

Just discipleship in the flesh, slow and costly and invisible to everyone else.

6. Interrogate every post before you share it.

If you do post about your faith, ask yourself: Why am I posting this?

• To glorify God or… to manage my image?

• To encourage others… or to be seen as encouraging?

• Because it’s true… or because I need it to be true about me?

Be ruthlessly honest.

If the answer makes you squirm, don’t post it.

7. Celebrate the work of God you’ll never see.

Pray for people you’ll never meet.

Give to causes that will never thank you.

Mentor someone who won’t tag you in their success story. Let the Kingdom grow in the dark, where only God keeps the books.

8. Prioritize character over stage presence.

If you’re in leadership, start asking different questions:

Not “Who can preach?”

but “Who has been faithful?”

Not “Who’s gifted?”

but “Who’s growing in Christ-likeness?”

Not “Who can draw a crowd?”

but “Who loves people when no one’s watching?”

The kid who’s been quietly serving for five years without a platform? Invite him to teach. Give him the mic. Then, mentor the HECK out of him.

Let him know that his hidden faithfulness is seen and valued… but also let him know he is called to be a son and disciple before he is called to be a preacher.

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The Choice

As I write this, I am very aware I am doing it from a platform.

I have literal subscribers to a platform from which I post.

Regardless, here’s what I’ve come to learn: the platform is not my identity.

The algorithm could change overnight. A billionaire could buy Substack and nuke my content. I could post something next month and get 2% the engagement I usually do.

In the past, that would have devastated me.

Now, I am at a place where I realize the platform is never the point. It’s just a tool that God can use in different seasons. Seasons come and go. What matters is long obedience in the same direction.

God isn’t trying to polish your image.

He’s trying to bury it... and raise you new.

So let it die. Let the need to be noticed die. Let the addiction to metrics die. Let the platform die.

Because here’s the truth that will either wreck you or set you free:

Platforms cannot save you from your crippling sense of imposter syndrome.

Obscurity cannot save you from your ego.

Only Jesus can save you from both sides of the spiral.

Following Jesus means laying down your reputation the way He did. Willingly, violently, with zero regard for how it makes you look.

It means choosing the narrow gate of hiddenness over the wide road of visibility.

It means becoming the kind of Christian who serves, prays, loves, and bleeds without an audience because you’ve discovered that an audience of One is enough.

And when you do that (when you stop performing and start obeying) you’ll discover something the algorithm can never give you:

Freedom.

Real, terrifying, liberating freedom to be a disciple, not a producer of content.

A soul, not a brand.

Freedom that spits in the face of metrics and says:

“I could disappear tomorrow, and God would still call me His beloved child.”

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ABOUT GOODLION MINISTRIES

If this kind of wrestling speaks to you, that’s the heart of what I’ve been building here at GoodLion. I invite you to help me keep doing it!

I am a bi-vocational pastor and ministry leader, working to point people to Jesus through teaching, writing, and resources.

GoodLion Ministries exists to help people wrestle with faith, find clarity in the chaos, and follow Jesus deeply.

We run a weekly School of Discipleship for young adults. We write. We teach. We podcast. We make disciples. We hope.

You can help me keep doing this work by becoming a donor.

👉 Support GoodLion Ministries Here

Thank you for walking with me.

– Aaron