Does Orthodox Christianity Have A Celebrity Problem?

We Say We Love the Saints, But We Follow Celebrities

Nearly twenty years ago, I met an older family friend for coffee. He had recently retired after a long career. Through pensions, retirement accounts, and decades of careful planning, he had accumulated enough wealth that he could spend what many people call their “golden years” without financial worry.

At one point I asked him,

“Now that you are retired, what is your plan for the rest of your life?”

Without the slightest hesitation, and with the confidence of a man who had clearly considered the question many times before, he replied:

“I think I’d like to write a book on Christian spirituality, and I’d like to become a full-time conference speaker.”

Two decades have passed since that conversation, and I have never forgotten it.

Enough time has elapsed that I am no longer betraying any confidence by recounting the exchange. Besides, the individual himself is not the point. The conversation merely exposed something that I have observed repeatedly ever since.

I was not yet thirty years old, but his words struck me as something entirely foreign. Strangely enough, they remain just as foreign to me today.

The goal of many Christians in the modern Western world seems to be some form of public platform. They want to be published authors, conference speakers, podcasters, influencers, YouTubers, public intellectuals, or religious personalities.

I find this utterly tragic.

What kind of Christian culture have we created when countless men and women secretly long to become religious celebrities?

If you doubt this, simply look around.

• Turn on YouTube.

• Browse social media.

• Look at the advertisements for men’s conferences and women’s conferences.

• Look at the promotional material for the next spiritual gathering in your city.

It matters little whether one is Evangelical, Catholic, Orthodox, Anglican, or something else entirely. We have all, in one way or another, participated in the creation of a culture of Christian celebrity.

Even within the Orthodox world, where I now reside, we are hardly immune.

The same temptations exist among us. The larger the name, the larger the crowd. The larger the social media following, the greater the excitement. Conferences can sell more tickets, attract more attention, and generate more revenue if they feature internet personalities, famous speakers, or popular debaters.

There is something deeply revealing about this.

We claim to admire the saints, but we often imitate the celebrities.

When I read the lives of the saints, I encounter something altogether different.

• I see Saint Anthony the Great retreating further and further into the Egyptian desert in an effort to escape those who sought him out. The crowds pursued him, but he never pursued the crowds.

• I see Saint Arsenius the Great, who had once lived among emperors, fleeing into solitude and praying, “Lord, lead me in the way of salvation.” He spent much of his life trying to become unknown.

• I see Saint Mary of Egypt disappearing into the wilderness beyond the Jordan, where she spent decades in repentance, unseen by nearly everyone.

• I see Saint Seraphim of Sarov withdrawing into the forest, embracing silence and prayer long before pilgrims eventually discovered him.

The pattern repeats itself again and again.

The saints flee fame.

The world chases it.

Perhaps part of my reaction is simply a matter of age.

I belong to Generation X. I grew up during the 1980s and 1990s, an era saturated with celebrity culture. Everywhere one looked there were famous athletes, famous musicians, famous actors, famous television personalities. Entire industries were devoted to convincing ordinary people that recognition was the highest good.

Perhaps because I was immersed in that culture, I developed an allergy toward it.

The more I watched people seek fame, the less attractive it became.

I learned to admire those who carried themselves without self-importance. I valued people who did not enter a room demanding attention. I respected those who quietly fulfilled their duties without announcing their accomplishments to the world.

Humility always seemed more beautiful than notoriety.

When I think of Christian greatness, I do not picture a conference stage.

• I do not picture Christian celebrities speaking to thousands from brightly lit platforms, only to retreat afterward into comfortable estates far removed from the ordinary struggles of the people who admire them.

• I do not picture speakers who only converse with others when an honorarium is involved, and whose lives remain inaccessible to all but a small circle of trusted friends.

• I do not picture carefully cultivated brands, professional ministries, or religious personalities surrounded by handlers, schedules, and promotional material.

When I think of Saints I want to imitate, I think of Saint John the Baptist.

Dressed in camel’s hair, eating locusts and wild honey, living in the wilderness, he was hardly what modern churches would call a respectable speaker.

He was dangerous.

He lived far from the centers of influence and power.

He did not build a platform.

He did not create a brand.

He did not market himself.

Yet all Jerusalem came out to hear him.

Why?

Because he was filled with the Holy Spirit.

The people traveled into the desert because God had sent a prophet there.

Saint John became famous precisely because he never sought fame.

That is often the way of the saints.

The saints are not driven by the desire to become conference speakers.

The saints are not driven by dreams of becoming public personalities.

The saints spend their lives praying.

They confess their sins.

They struggle against pride.

They seek God in secret.

Substack, the only social platform I use in any meaningful way, is not immune to the same disease that afflicts the rest of our culture.

Protestant, Roman Catholic, and yes, even Orthodox Christians with varying degrees of celebrity can all be found here.

The larger names gather the larger audiences.

You and I know who they are.

• Some have published books.

• Some host podcasts.

• Some travel from conference to conference.

• Some are waiting for the next invitation.

Perhaps this is why I find myself increasingly grateful for our own parish priest, our spiritual father.

He will likely never become a Christian celebrity. He will probably never headline a conference, host a popular podcast, or accumulate hundreds of thousands of followers online. Yet he possesses something infinitely more valuable.

He knows his people.

He knows which marriages are struggling. He knows which parishioners are grieving. He knows who has drifted from confession, who is battling illness, who is carrying burdens too heavy to bear alone. When he speaks from the pulpit, he is not delivering content to strangers. He is speaking as a father to his children.

At times he has rebuked us.

He has challenged us for failing to love one another as we ought. He has challenged us for treating the Divine Liturgy too casually. He has challenged us for neglecting repentance and confession.

Yet what strikes me most is that he never stands above us when he does so.

Almost invariably, he includes himself among the guilty.

“I am guilty of this as well,” he will say.

“I do not say this because I am better than you.”

Then, with a sincerity that cannot be manufactured, he reminds us that he too is a sinner in need of God’s mercy.

Such words carry a weight that no celebrity can imitate. They carry weight because they are spoken by a man who knows us, loves us, prays for us, and suffers alongside us.

He kisses and hugs each of us every time he sees us. He greets strangers who have never visited our church as though he has known them their whole life. He exudes a type of love that only comes from being filled with the Holy Spirit.

A Christian celebrity may gather an audience.

A spiritual father gathers souls.

---

I did not start this Substack to make money selling a brand.

I started this Substack for a far simpler reason.

I wanted to share my spiritual journey.

I hoped that by sharing my own failures, struggles, doubts, and lessons learned, something I wrote might encourage another weary traveler along the road.

Perhaps one day, when darkness seems overwhelming and hope feels distant, you might remember that the person writing these essays is not an expert, a celebrity, or a spiritual giant.

He is simply another sinner trying to find his way home.

A work in progress.

And it is for all of these reasons, and many more, that we have been quietly working toward what is, for us, a rather significant announcement.

Not a conference.

Not a speaking tour.

Not a paid event.

Not an opportunity to purchase a ticket and sit in an audience.

But something much simpler.

An invitation.

An invitation to coffee.

An invitation to sit together beneath the shade of a palmetto tree.

An invitation to share stories, ask questions, laugh, pray, and enjoy one another’s company.

Check out the video below for more info.

~ Kenneth

Furthermore

Before I close, allow me to say thank you.

Thank you to every reader who takes a few moments out of their day to read these essays.

Thank you to those who leave thoughtful comments, send emails, share articles with friends, and click the little heart button beneath a post. Though they may seem like small gestures, they are deeply appreciated.

And a special thank you to those who support this work through paid subscriptions.

Many of you know that I have never viewed this publication as a business venture. Yet your support has made it possible for me to continue writing, and pursuing a variety of ministry projects that would otherwise remain only ideas scribbled in a notebook.

Most importantly, thank you for your prayers.

Many of you have been reading for a while, some of you arrived only recently. Yet together we have somehow formed a small community of fellow travelers, all trying, however imperfectly, to follow Christ.

For that, I am profoundly grateful.