Influencers Are the New Priests — And Instagram Is the New Pulpit

 From curated sermons to sponsored salvation, how we replaced holy books with highlight reels — and still call it truth.

Once upon a time, humans turned to prophets in deserts and monks in mountains for enlightenment. Now, they open Instagram. The new gospel is in 30-second reels, the holy water is alkaline, and the savior? A 23-year-old wearing matching athleisure and sponsored makeup, preaching self-love while selling diet tea. The ancient cathedral has become a ring light setup, and instead of donations, there's a link in the bio. In this era of curated enlightenment, influencers have seamlessly replaced priests as our cultural guides, our moral compasses, and occasionally, our unsolicited life coaches.

Gone are the days when credibility came from rigorous study or community service. Today, clout is currency. You do not need theology when you have filters, and you do not need wisdom when you have Wi-Fi. Millions now tune in daily for a hit of emotional validation, product placement, or worse, pseudo-therapeutic advice from someone who once went viral for lip-syncing to Beyoncé. In this attention economy, truth is negotiable but aesthetics are not. As long as the grid is cohesive, nobody cares if the caption is unhinged.

The rise of this new priesthood is not accidental. In a fragmented, anxious world, people crave certainty and ritual. The influencer delivers both. Whether it is “That Girl” routines at 5 a.m. or five-step skincare sermons before bed, these digital prophets offer lifestyle commandments dressed up as personal choice. And unlike old-school religion, which at least acknowledged doubt, influencer culture thrives on curated perfection and punishes imperfection with algorithmic exile (Abidin 108).

Perhaps what is most damning is how willingly we worship. Every like is an amen. Every share is an evangelistic act. And every sponsored post is a communion wafer made of pixels and marketing strategy. In a world so desperate for meaning, we have bartered our spiritual inheritance for affiliate links and product tags. And the most terrifying part? We are not even mad about it (Marwick 94).

Influencer Culture as Modern Spirituality 

The modern influencer does not need a pulpit. Their stage is digital, and their scripture is a carousel post with pastel fonts. In ancient times, spiritual leaders guided communities through existential uncertainty. Today, influencers do the same, only instead of offering peace or enlightenment, they peddle clarity in the form of skincare regimens, meal-prep boxes, and affirmations that could have been plagiarized from Pinterest. This new clergy thrives not on depth but on visibility. Faith is now a following, not a philosophy.

Consider the influencer who starts each video with, “Hi besties, today’s energy is all about abundance.” This is not far from televangelists of the 90s, except instead of yelling on cable, they whisper into ring-lit cameras on TikTok. Their followers do not call them reverend or rabbi. Instead, they are addressed with usernames ending in “.life,” “.heal,” or “.coach.” They may not baptize, but they do cleanse through detox juices and facial rollers. It is a wellness-based gospel that demands belief, loyalty, and ideally, monthly subscriptions.

The appeal lies in the aesthetic. Spirituality is no longer judged by virtue but by vibe. The modern seeker is not looking for moral clarity but a morning routine that feels like inner peace. Hence the rise of rituals like “manifestation journaling” and “energy clearing” which, stripped of any historical or cultural roots, are now sold as spiritual starter kits for the emotionally fatigued middle class. As Banet-Weiser notes, “authenticity in influencer culture is less about truth and more about emotional performance” (82). Crying on camera is a spiritual breakthrough. Oversharing is a sacrament.

This shift is not just cringeworthy. It is deeply revealing. In a world where institutions have failed to provide stability. Be it religious, governmental, or familial, people have turned to micro-celebrities for meaning. Influencers offer a kind of spiritual fast food: easy to digest, highly processed, and devoid of real substance. And much like junk food, it is addictive. One viral post promising to align your chakras with color-coded smoothies gets shared across continents. That is influence masquerading as spiritual authority.

At its core, this new age of digital discipleship reveals an uncomfortable truth: we are not looking for God. We are looking for content. And as long as that content is aesthetically pleasing, algorithmically approved, and emotionally affirming, we do not care who is behind it. The influencer becomes the modern oracle, not because they are wise, but because they are visible, and in this attention-starved culture, that is all it takes to be believed (Carroll 115).

Algorithms as the New Gospel , Curated Truth and Digital Dogma

Once upon a time, truth was carved in stone, whispered in temples, or argued over in dusty libraries. Today, truth is what the algorithm decides you should see. The divine revelation comes not through burning bushes or prophets in caves, but via personalized feeds shaped by your recent clicks and subconscious cravings. The algorithm is not just software. It is the new gospel writer, editing reality with eerie precision and relentless bias.

Unlike ancient scriptures, which were at least debated by councils and scholars, algorithmic content is curated with one sacred commandment: keep them scrolling. There is no room for nuance when engagement is the only virtue. Complex truths are reduced to bite-sized sermonettes in Instagram captions or TikTok voiceovers. As Bucher points out, algorithms “shape the visibility of cultural narratives and the social identities they uphold” (28). The influencer becomes not a messenger of ideas but a vessel of optimized content, tailored to fit the narrow corridor of what pleases the feed.

This turns every platform into a church of convenience. You log in, receive your daily scroll-based revelation, and feel spiritually informed because someone said “Mercury is in retrograde, so drink water and block your ex.” You exit the app feeling enlightened and exhausted. Not because truth was revealed, but because you were trapped in a loop of dopamine-soaked illusions. The algorithm gave you what you already believed, polished with hashtags and filter glow.

The gospel has rules. Post at peak hours. Use the sacred trinity of engagement: ask a question, use emojis, and invoke relatability. Those who follow these commandments are rewarded with visibility. Those who do not are cast into the digital wilderness, unseen and forgotten. This invisible doctrine ensures that only the loudest, prettiest, or most unhinged ideas rise to the top. Wisdom is not part of the equation. As Noble observes, “algorithmic systems can perpetuate racial and gendered stereotypes while claiming objectivity” (144). The digital gospel is biased, performative, and terrifyingly persuasive.

What makes this spiritual shift so absurd is how uncritically we accept it. Religious texts were once interpreted, dissected, and challenged. Algorithmic feeds? We take them at face value. If it shows up in your feed three times, it must be true. If your favorite influencer says it, it must be authentic. The algorithm becomes an invisible priesthood, mediating all knowledge, narrowing all thinking, and reinforcing all biases with divine efficiency.

In this bizarre theocracy of data and desire, curated content has replaced communal wisdom. Faith is now formed in isolation, in bed, at 2 a.m., by a glow screen and a double tap. It is not the gospel truth. It is just the gospel version the algorithm thinks you will not question.

Followers as the New Congregation with Devotion, Donations, and DMs

If you think today’s influencers are not spiritual leaders, just look at their followers. Devoted. Vocal. Sometimes disturbingly loyal. They hang on every post like it is scripture, defend their favorites like modern disciples, and give generously with clicks, comments, and money. In the influencer economy, followers are not just an audience. They are the congregation. They bring the digital amen, even when the sermon is a sponsored post for whitening toothpaste.

The parasocial relationship, this one-sided emotional bond between influencer and follower, is the heart of this faith. Unlike traditional faith leaders who worked within physical communities, influencers float above location, collecting hearts, admiration, and wallets across the globe. Their reach is limitless, but their power feels personal. A single comment reply from them is more meaningful than years of actual friendship. Horton and Wohl observed that parasocial interactions create the illusion of intimacy without any actual mutual connection (217). Today, that illusion is not just maintained. It is sold.

Look closely and you will see classic church mechanics. There are sermons in long captions about healing and growth. There are testimonials in the form of transformation stories or before-and-after slides. And there is an offering plate, only this time it is a payment link. Tithes are no longer for the hungry or the homeless. They go to fund vision boards, skincare, and carefully edited thank-you videos. As long as the message lands softly, the congregation will pay.

The devotion is real. When influencers get caught lying, photoshopping, or promoting junk, followers rarely abandon them. Instead, they say things like "She is only human" or "He made a mistake but his heart is good." Much like religious followers who forgive fallen pastors, influencer fans see moral collapse as character development. Redemption is just another chapter in the content arc.

There is hierarchy too. The longer you follow, the more chosen you feel. New fans are strangers. Old fans get remembered. Some influencers even form private communities, like paid chat groups or exclusive video series. This separation mimics the priest and laity divide. Access to the sacred space, meaning behind-the-scenes content, is restricted to the most faithful.

And then there are the DMs. Once a quiet place for personal chats, now they are digital confessionals. Followers write long messages about breakups, trauma, or dreams, hoping their favorite internet sage will respond. Some do. Most do not. But the hope is not healing. It is visibility. As Abidin notes, visibility is now the currency of intimacy (53). A like from your internet idol can feel like spiritual recognition.

This is a church without walls, but it has rules, rituals, and even reverence. The followers are not just scrolling. They are searching. And what they find, for better or worse, is a performance of connection that feels divine.

Cancel Culture as the New Excommunication

In ancient times, when a spiritual leader strayed from doctrine or challenged sacred tradition, the punishment was swift. They were silenced, excommunicated, or in extreme cases, burned at the stake. Today, the digital version of this public reckoning is called cancel culture. The influencer who once basked in likes and adoration becomes a warning tale overnight. A misstep, a controversial opinion, or an old tweet surfaces, and suddenly the congregation turns. Their name trends for all the wrong reasons, and the algorithm that once lifted them now buries them.

Cancel culture mirrors old religious excommunication. It isolates the sinner from the community, strips them of their authority, and declares them unfit for worship. Yet, unlike traditional systems that required evidence or deliberation, today’s digital trials take place on the fly. The jury is everyone with Wi-Fi. The verdict is formed before the apology is typed. The process is brutal, public, and strangely addictive. It is not about justice. It is about purging.

Social media does not forgive quietly. It punishes loudly. Screenshots become scripture. Hashtags become holy war chants. Influencers who once spoke about healing and alignment are cast as heretics for using the wrong pronoun or promoting a problematic brand. Some deserve the fallout. Others are victims of clout-hungry mobs who weaponize morality for engagement. As Ng notes, cancel culture often “functions less as accountability and more as a performance of outrage” (44).

This ritual has its own choreography. First comes the “call-out” post, usually framed as disappointment from a longtime fan. Then the receipts flood in, often cherry-picked or taken out of context. Comment sections turn into tribunals. Followers unfollow not out of critical thought but to cleanse their digital conscience. Influencers release apology videos, always beginning with deep sighs and the phrase “I just want to address something.” If they cry, they might be spared. If they defend themselves, they are crucified.

What makes this system especially ironic is how similar it is to the religious orthodoxy influencers claim to reject. Many influencers brand themselves as progressive, spiritual, or authentic. Yet they operate within a rigid moral framework where even perceived imperfection is punishable. The digital congregation does not seek growth. It seeks blood. And in the end, the only acceptable redemption is silence or rebranding.

The aftermath of cancellation is either resurrection or oblivion. Some influencers reemerge after a hiatus, repackaged with new language and a different audience. Others disappear completely, their names spoken only in cautionary tones. The cancellation itself becomes content. Think pieces are written. Videos are made. Influence is never truly destroyed. It is simply recycled. As Ronson writes, “we are defining the boundaries of acceptable behavior by demolishing people” (12).

Cancel culture has replaced communal correction with collective humiliation. There is no priest offering confession. There is no process for atonement. Only a digital mob deciding who gets to speak and who must vanish. In this modern faith system, redemption is not earned. It is algorithmically permitted.

As I conclude, Influencers are not just digital personalities. They are spiritual symbols for an era that replaced sacred texts with Instagram captions and moral guidance with morning routines. This shift did not happen by accident. It is the byproduct of a world where institutions have lost trust, communities are fragmented, and identity is curated more than it is lived. People no longer gather in temples or mosques. They gather in comment sections. They do not ask priests for counsel. They ask beauty vloggers and lifestyle coaches with Wi-Fi.

It is easy to laugh at this phenomenon. And maybe we should. But behind the humor is a serious reflection of modern longing. People still crave purpose, belonging, and meaning. Only now, they find it in parasocial relationships with strangers who know how to edit a photo and whisper affirmations into a microphone. The influencer has become a mirror, a muse, and a messiah all at once. Their followers are not just passive viewers. They are believers, participants in a digital liturgy of likes, shares, and subscriptions.

What makes this new spiritual order so fragile is that it depends entirely on performance. Authenticity is rehearsed. Vulnerability is monetized. Morality is algorithmic. The moment an influencer stops performing the role expected of them, the system rejects them. Cancel culture is the excommunication ceremony. Engagement drops. Opportunities dry up. And the congregation quietly unfollows. As Abidin observes, influence is now built on “calculated exposure, curated emotionality, and the illusion of access” (67). There is no doctrine. Only optics.

We now live in a time where personal branding has replaced personal growth, and emotional resonance is valued more than rational thought. That is a recipe for a shallow kind of spirituality, one that comforts but does not challenge, that affirms but rarely transforms. In this religion of influence, salvation is not found through reflection or sacrifice. It is measured in followers, sponsorships, and metrics.

Perhaps the real question is not whether influencers are spiritual leaders. The real question is why we made them that way. When belief becomes branding, and faith becomes a filter, maybe it is not the influencers who failed us. Maybe it is us who settled for the sermon in the scroll.

Works Cited

Abidin, Crystal. Internet Celebrity: Understanding Fame Online. Emerald Publishing, 2018.

Banet-Weiser, Sarah. Authenticity: The Cultural Politics of Branding. NYU Press, 2012.

Bucher, Taina. If...Then: Algorithmic Power and Politics. Oxford University Press, 2018.

Carroll, Rachel. "Performative Authenticity in Digital Culture." Journal of New Media Studies, vol. 5, no. 2, 2019, pp. 112–129.

Horton, Donald, and R. Richard Wohl. "Mass Communication and Para-Social Interaction: Observations on Intimacy at a Distance." Psychiatry, vol. 19, no. 3, 1956, pp. 215–229.

Marwick, Alice E. Status Update: Celebrity, Publicity, and Branding in the Social Media Age. Yale University Press, 2013.

Ng, Eve. "No Grand Pronouncements Here...: Reflections on Cancel Culture and Digital Media Participation." Television & New Media, vol. 21, no. 6, 2020, pp. 621–627.

Noble, Safiya Umoja. Algorithms of Oppression: How Search Engines Reinforce Racism. NYU Press, 2018.

Ronson, Jon. So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed. Riverhead Books, 2015.