When God Ghosts You: Crisis of Faith in the Age of Megachurch Merchandising

The sacred went silent, the pastors got PayPal, and we’re left whispering into the algorithm--Chronicles of Collapse (with Jokes!)

PROLOGUE: God Has Left the Chat

I was baptized Catholic.

I no longer believe in God. Not in the way I once did—not in the literal, institutional, heaven-above, hell-below sense. But I remember. I remember the stories. I remember the stillness. I remember the goodness, before it got packaged, twisted, and sold.

I don’t write this as a cynic. I write this as someone who still believes in people. In grace. In the decency that ran through the Sermon on the Mount like marrow, not because it came from above, but because it came from below: from hunger, from heartbreak, from human need.

But what’s left today looks less like grace and more like grift.

We were told God speaks in stillness.

But this? This isn’t stillness. This is static. This is ghosting.

And while we wait for divine presence, what do we get instead? LED walls. Smoke machines. Sermons with fonts. Pastors with sneaker endorsements.

The temple hasn’t just been desecrated—it’s been monetized, podcasted, and given a jingle. The altar is now a stage, and the sacred scrolls are merch drops with next-day delivery.

The crisis of faith isn’t just that people are losing religion. It’s that religion has lost itself.

ACT I: The Holy Hustle

Let’s begin with the obvious: American Christianity is in full-blown influencer mode.

Once upon a time, faith was a practice. Now it’s a brand strategy. You can choose your denomination the way you select your protein powder—whatever suits your lifestyle and aesthetic.

Want a warrior gospel? There’s a church for that. Prefer prosperity? Tithe up, baby. Looking for full authoritarian cosplay with a side of Leviticus? We’ve got pews and an AR-15 raffle with your name on it.

Jesus flipped tables in the temple. Now the tables have square readers.

The Merchification of the Messiah

Let’s not pretend this is subtle.

Christian music now sounds like Coldplay’s marketing intern ghostwrote it.

The Nativity has a hashtag.

Bible apps ask if you want to “upgrade to premium” for “exclusive verse packs.”

If God is love, we’ve wrapped it in a newsletter. If Christ is king, we’ve sold tickets to the coronation.

Meanwhile, the prophets are silent. Or possibly shadowbanned.

ACT II: The Algorithm Is My Shepherd

The megachurch era promised big things: a global revival, digital outreach, coffee bars with soul.

What we got instead was:

Worship as spectacle.

Pastors are minor celebrities.

Faith as an “experience.”

If you’ve ever sat in a church where the fog machine kicks in right as the chorus swells on “Oceans,” congratulations—you’ve been spiritually catfished.

Jesus as Lifestyle Icon™

Modern sermons are less “Blessed are the meek” and more “You were built for greatness.”

We’ve swapped:

Beatitudes for branding tips

Community for click-through rates

Discernment for the DISC personality tests

And yet… we’re starving. We scroll. We swipe. We tap “amen” in the comments of a stranger’s baptism video and feel nothing.

Because the sacred wasn’t meant to be streamed. Because God doesn’t do engagement farming.

ACT III: Christian Nationalism Enters, Stage Right

Here’s where things get dark.

When faith loses depth, it reaches for power. When mystery gets replaced by marketing, what fills the void isn’t wonder—it’s control.

Enter Christian nationalism: Frankenstein’s monster of corrupted liturgy and state-sanctioned rage.

It wraps the cross in a flag, crucifies empathy, and sells forgiveness in bulk—terms and conditions apply.

The message becomes:

God wants you to be rich.

God wants your enemies punished.

God votes exactly like you do.

And just like that, the gospel becomes a gun.

We’ve gone from loaves and fishes to loyalty pledges and voter drives at the altar.

Christian nationalism isn’t just cringeworthy. It’s a blueprint for theocracy. It’s how libraries get defunded, protestors get teargassed, and children get handed theology instead of healthcare.

INTERLUDE: The Lost

You might be reading this thinking, “I used to believe.”

Maybe you still do. Perhaps you’re trying to. Maybe you’re standing in a burned-down sanctuary holding the last lit candle of your childhood faith, asking if the silence means you were a fool.

You weren’t.

The silence isn’t your fault. It’s not divine absence—it’s institutional betrayal.

What left you wasn’t God. What left was the integrity of the people who claimed to speak for Him.

And they didn’t just leave. They ran off with your money, your innocence, your trust, and your baptism photos, which are now being used in a crypto sermon illustration.

ACT IV: The Prophets Were Right (We Just Didn’t Listen)

Let’s name them.

Jeremiah: You trust in deceptive words to no avail.

Amos: I hate your religious festivals; your assemblies are a stench to me.

Jesus: Beware of practicing your righteousness before others to be seen by them.

The Bible isn’t short on warnings. It’s just that we don’t quote those in neon cursive on reclaimed wood.

Because the real prophets were not good for morale, they were disinvited from galas. They made everyone uncomfortable. They pointed out that if your pastor’s house has a moat and your neighbor is starving, maybe—just maybe—the gospel has been outsourced.

ACT V: Hope in the Ruins

And yet—despite all this—I believe in the possibility of renewal.

Not because of the institutions. Not because of the influencers. But because of the people who are still whispering in the dark.

Because someone out there is still:

Visiting the sick.

Forgiving the unforgivable.

Telling the truth even when it ruins their book deal.

They don’t need a brand. They don’t want a following. They want to be decent. To be human. To honor what the teachings were always supposed to mean.

That’s the remnant. That’s the resistance. And they don’t need fog machines to know the holy when it arrives.

I remember once, years ago, seeing a woman pray over a dying man’s hand in a VA hospital. No stage. No sermon. Just a whisper and a tear. If the sacred still lives anywhere, it lives there.

So Where Is God?

Maybe not in heaven. Maybe not at all.

But maybe in the person who refused to sell out. Maybe in the stranger who brought you soup when you were too tired to pray. Maybe in the silence itself—if we stop trying to fill it with subscriptions.

Maybe the sacred isn’t lost, just obscured. By those who think branding is a sacrament.

EPILOGUE: The Altars We Build Next

This isn’t a call to burn every megachurch. It’s a call to ask: What were they built for in the first place?

If your church needs a jumbotron to feel divine, if your faith can’t survive a change in political power, if your preacher sells vitamins and votes for vengeance,

Then maybe it’s not faith. Maybe it’s fear in drag.

Real goodness isn’t loud. It doesn’t sell. It walks. It carries. It bleeds.

If god has ghosted us, maybe he's waiting for us to stop performing and start remembering. Not the glory days. Not the buildings. But the actual teachings:

Love the poor.

Comfort the grieving.

Feed the hungry.

Tell the truth.

You don’t need stage lights for that. You don’t need a platform. You need to remember what mercy sounds like.

And that’s where hope lives: Right where the merch table ends, and the real work begins.

Further Reading: