The Platform Paradox

How do we steward a message without chasing the spotlight

I picked a great time in history to start writing. People are reading less than ever before (remember what a library was?). These days, most of our information is boiled down into 60-second video clips. And if you want to publish a book, it’s not really just about what you wrote—it’s about how many followers you have and whether you can guarantee moving units. So yeah… perfect time to pour out my heart across 250+ pages and try to figure out how to get it into people’s hands.

And that’s where I’ve been stuck lately. I didn’t write this book to become a writer. I wrote it because I needed to work some things out—stuff I was wrestling through in my own walk with Jesus. But now that it’s done(ish), I actually think it could help people. Which leaves me with the question: How do I get this into the world without without feeling like a social media salesman

Let me explain… In today’s world, especially in the Western church, it feels like the equation is pretty simple:

“I want to have an impact for Jesus. Therefore, the bigger my platform, the greater my potential for good.”

In other words, if you want to help people, the assumption is you have to build a platform. So the logical next step is: “build a platform.”

And I don’t think that’s just ego talking. For many, the motive is deeply sincere. We want people to know Jesus. We want the Church to be built up. We want truth to be heard and beauty to be seen. And we’ve watched people with large platforms do real good—lead movements, raise funds for justice, inspire faith, create discipleship tools that scale.

The problem is… that logic doesn’t really sound like Jesus.

Jesus didn’t say, “Whoever builds the biggest audience will have the greatest influence.” He said, “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant. Whoever wants to be first must be slave of all.” (Mark 10:43–44) That doesn’t play well on Instagram. Servants don’t go viral. Slaves don’t trend. So what do we do with that?

The book came out of a season of wrestling—questions about faith, pain, disillusionment, all of it. I wrote it because I needed to. But now that it’s here, I do think it might actually help people. And apparently, the next step—if I want it to reach anyone—is to “build a platform.” Post more. Speak more. Network more. Position yourself as a voice. An expert. A thought leader. But honestly that makes me cringe. Not because I think it’s inherently evil. But because something about it feels…off. Like I’m trying to take something born in obscurity and force it into visibility. Like I’m trying to make sure God uses it instead of trusting that God can.

And then I swing to the other extreme. Maybe I should do nothing. Just sit on it. Pray, “God, if you want this book to get out there, you make it happen.” But is that just burying a talent, not being faithful with what God has given me to steward?

It’s kind of a lose-lose: Promote it? Feels self-important. Don’t promote it? Feels like disobedience. Do it humbly? Cool, but humility doesn’t beat the algorithm.

So here we are. Caught in the middle of a cultural machine that tells us platform is essential, and a Savior who says obscurity is where the real work gets done.

How did the early church handle their version of this? The apostles clearly preached publicly. They drew crowds. They performed miracles. Paul wrote letters knowing they’d be read aloud in gatherings. That’s not exactly hiding in the shadows. But it was never about their brand. Yes, they were strategic and intentional—but it was never about their ability, their voice, or their “reach.” It was always about Jesus. Always. And their “popularity”? It didn’t lead to book deals—it led to prison and death (Granted, they did contribute to the greatest bestseller of all time… but I digress.)

I’ve been soaking in Paul’s letters to the Corinthians lately, and fair to say—they were dealing with similar stuff. They loved the “wow.” They were drawn to charisma, gifting, spiritual hype. But the things that really mattered? Unity, holiness, everyday faithfulness? That was harder for them to hold onto. They were so enamored with their teachers that they started aligning themselves under different brands: “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos,” “I follow Cephas” (1 Cor. 1:12). Their loyalty to personalities became more important than unity in Christ. They chased spectacle and neglected substance. And Paul just keeps pulling them back down to earth. “I came to you in weakness,” he says, “so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom but on God’s power” (1 Cor. 2:1–5). He knew they wanted flash, but he gave them faithfulness. He affirms the gifts, yes—but insists they mean nothing without love. He doesn’t deny that public ministry can matter, but he insists that private obedience matters more.

We’re not so different. We love the people with reach. We quote the ones with followings. We trust the “voices.” We chase what scales. But Paul keeps whispering (or shouting): You’re missing it. The substance of Christian life isn’t spectacle. It’s surrender. It’s not performance. Its presence. It’s not reach. It’s love.

So maybe that’s the question. Can we offer what we’ve created to the world…
…without needing the world to notice us in the process? Can we steward influence without being seduced by it? Can we share the good news without needing to be the good news?

I don’t have an answer. I’m just living in the tension. To resist the pressure to build a platform for Jesus that He never asked for. To trust that obedience and obscurity are not mutually exclusive. To do the work… and let Him decide what He wants to do with it. Because maybe, just maybe, the world doesn’t need more Christian influencers.
It needs more servants.

That said… I did write a book. I am trying to get it published. And yes—if you follow me on social and subscribe to my Substack, it helps with publishers and feeds the almighty algorithm god. So… there’s that.

I’d love to hear from all of you… How would you navigate this? #platformingisdumb