Nobody becomes a food critic because they despise food. Likewise, many online church reviewers critique the Church in various forms precisely because they love Her, not because they hate Her.
Then come the cynics. The Greeks thought cynics should have their eyes removed—they couldn’t see anything good. These trolls pose as truth seekers, but their work reeks of radical skepticism and terminal irony.
Next come the ideologues—their critiques laced with Critical Theory keywords: colonialism, cisgenderism, white supremacy, patriarchy, racism—you know the drill. These folks aren’t rooted in Scripture; their compass spins with whatever the latest blue-haired Marxist is spewing in the Humanities department.
The average churchgoer gulps down content from all three types daily. They sip from the Critic, chug the Cynic, and occasionally mainline the Psycho. And depending on the vibes—their friend group at church, how “seen” they feel, or their ministry satisfaction—they binge one more than the rest.
Sheep gonna sheep.
But you can help vaccinate your flock against TikTok theology—platforms like TheosU help everyday believers grow theological teeth and stand firm.
As a Shepherd in the Age of Extremes—where congregants can ChatGPT-fact-check you mid-sermon—you have a choice: opinionated stability or opinionated instability.
Back in the day, a pastor could say something utterly dumb and it would still tattoo itself on hearts. Now, you’re competing with reels, Reddit threads, and rogue algorithms.
So either ground your people epistemologically (they’ll grow humble, helpful, and Scripture-honoring) or anthropologically (they’ll be nice humans, they’ll attend, but suspicious of Scripture).
Both roads produce opinions.
But one path says, “I don’t have to drive—I love my church even when I disagree.” The other says, “This place is oppressive, and I’m starting a Substack.”
Here’s what your average person doesn’t understand about church accountability: