How TikTok became a religious pulpit

THEY SAID it was divine intervention. TikTok was resurrected on January 19th, just hours after the short-video app shut down in America. Users gushed that their prayers had been answered. “God said let TikTok rise up!” one exclaimed. In fact, Donald Trump issued an executive order on his first day back in office, granting an extension before the Chinese-owned app would be divested or shut down due to American concerns over national security.

Sacred sentiments are not out of place on TikTok, where religious content is booming among the app’s 1.9bn global users (none of whom are in China, where it is not available). Videos with the top five holy hashtags, including #Jesus and #Islam, have been viewed more than 1.2trn times.

“FaithTok”, as some call the platform’s congregation, is eclectic. Videos show Catholics sprinkling holy water, Mormons annotating scripture and Muslims reciting the Koran. Nuns provide glimpses of convent life; imams proffer guidance; and congregants try to launch their own congregations. TikTok offers a cacophony of liturgy, which sometimes baffles as much as it enlightens. But it is worth more attention, because the app is changing faith and culture in notable ways.

This is not the first time technology has influenced religion, of course. The printing press was famously disruptive, disseminating new teachings and spurring on the Protestant Reformation in 1517. Television helped evangelism flourish in America in the 20th century, though it was also linked to lower church attendance. After the internet boom in the 1990s, people in the West started shedding their formal religious affiliations. Since then the share of Americans who say they have “no religion” has almost tripled, to 28%, surpassing every other denomination (though most still say they believe in a “higher power”).

Online there are “so many religious truth claims floating around that it undercuts your certainty”, explains Paul McClure, a sociologist at the University of Lynchburg in Virginia. As people spend more time on the internet, they are less likely to pray, attend services or belong to a religious tradition. That does not mean social media have been all bad for religion: online platforms have sometimes helped build religious communities through forums and chat rooms, including during covid. And inundated with multiple belief systems, pushed through algorithms, research has found that young adults on social media have become more accepting of different religions.

TikTok is the loudest pulpit yet. The app is “social media on steroids”, according to Nathan Mladin of Theos, a Christian think-tank. Its supercharged algorithms reduce complex ideas to 30-second clips and erode the “habits and virtues” of traditional “faith journeys” faster than ever before, he says.

TikTok is changing faith in three ways. First, conversions are occurring differently, especially among young people, who are not always attracted to established religious figures. Instead, they gravitate to FaithTokers, who sometimes peddle products that are “in line with scripture”, such as halal snacks and sportswear emblazoned with Bible verses. Their videos offer new rituals (“holy girl habits”), slogans (“God is so cool!”) and counsel in verse (“When in doubt, worship it out”). Influencers who tout “the Jesus glow” have seen great success on a platform where personal beauty advice flourishes.

Gen Z, TikTok’s biggest flock of users, is more likely than any other generation to think faith has a place in the modern world, according to a study by Theos. Young proselytes are often attracted not to established churches but to online ministries. “Short-form content was…a gift from God,” says Taylan Michael Seaman, a Louisianan influencer who runs a digital ministry and helps other Christians form their own. (“Kingdom University”, his training programme for would-be ministers, costs $8,000.) Mr Seaman claims to have started a “viral revival”, training a thousand preachers and inspiring some 750,000 “salvations”, or conversions.

A second way TikTok is changing faith is by making it less formal. Gen Z does not want “smoke and mirrors”, argues Gabe Poirot, an influencer who claims to have converted some 40,000 people to Christianity. Young people prefer unedited clips to polished productions. Some are leaving church pews, he thinks, to develop a more “intimate relationship with Jesus” online. Pared-back sermons and the parasocial relationships many netizens forge with online influencers offer some semblance of closeness to God.

TikTok’s casual style also means that anyone with a phone and internet connection can start preaching, says Denis Bekkering, an expert on online evangelism. Influencers are lauded for their charisma rather than their credentials; those with large followings have little training. On top of that, creators are incentivised to provoke or pander to their audience for views. That leads to clickbait titles such as “Are YOU going to HEAVEN or HELL?” and inflammatory interpretations of scripture.

This points to one of TikTok’s biggest effects on faith: it is sowing division. As ever more voices proclaim authority, people’s belief systems have splintered. Much as worshippers abandoned the Catholic church during the Reformation, today they are leaving traditional institutions to follow new religions.

The vitality of unorthodox beliefs undermines dominant authorities. Influencers’ ministries are often “non-denominational”, espousing views separate from any established sect. On the outer fringes of FaithTok people are defecting to “new age” spirituality. #Wicca (paganism) and #Witchcraft each have billions of views on the platform, as youngsters extol crystals, potions and spells.

FaithTok is awash in religious disinformation, from AI-generated hate speeches to deepfakes of prominent religious leaders. Spiritually minded conspiracy theories (dubbed “conspirituality”) spread rapidly on TikTok and beyond. For example, “QAnon” conspiracies are prevalent, infused with religious imagery and positioned as spiritual quests. Faith is a mobilising force, because believers think they are being summoned for a higher purpose, says Joan Donovan, a disinformation scholar at Boston University.

Some may find it ironic that religious content is flourishing on an app with strong ties to the Chinese Communist Party, which officially promotes “state atheism” and has persecuted religious and ethnic minorities, including mostly Muslim Uyghurs. But those who have closely studied TikTok are not really surprised. Divisive content, including about politics, tends to be amplified on the platform, in order to sow social instability, some believe. Religious disinformation can be as divisive as the political sort, Ms Donovan says. Online, many of the lambs of God turn into lions.

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