The Cult of the Gifted

After a bit more mulling on my last post, I’ve come to see it’s not just a visibility crisis—it’s a credibility crisis. Ministry has become a performance because we’ve formed leaders in the theatre of applause. Indeed, we live in an age that idolises visibility. Whether in politics, business, or church, what matters is not virtue but presence—stage presence, platform presence, brand presence. It’s not who you are that counts, but how you’re perceived. And the church, tragically, is not immune. In many corners of evangelicalism—and, yes, even among the Reformed—we are witnessing the quiet triumph of charisma over character, gifting over godliness.

This is the soil in which narcissism flourishes. Not the clinical kind reducible to DSM criteria, but the functional, cultural narcissism that breeds leaders who are admired more than known, and who are followed more than loved. These leaders are rarely incompetent. Quite the opposite—they’re often brilliant. Articulate. Compelling. Even orthodox. And therein lies the danger.

We’ve constructed an ecclesial ecosystem that rewards performance but neglects the slow work of personal formation. Conferences and podcasts have become the new pulpits, and social media has become the new session room. Metrics have replaced maturity. Theological clarity is prized—but only when wrapped in a marketable personality. We’ve confused doctrinal precision with pastoral credibility.

When charisma is detached from character, ministry becomes performance art. The pastor becomes a brand, and the sheep become an audience. Narcissistic leaders excel in this theatre. They know how to posture humility, feign vulnerability, and signal virtue while avoiding accountability. They build platforms through personas—not through the long obedience of shepherding souls.

Carl Trueman puts it sharply: ‘Institutions are no longer authoritative places of formation but of performance.'^[1]Carl R. Trueman, Strange New World: How Thinkers and Activists Redefined Identity and Sparked the Sexual Revolution (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2022), 100. The church, under cultural pressure, can become a place where ministers no longer grow in grace but perform an identity. He notes, ‘Everybody can be an Oscar Wilde today (though generally without his wit and sophistication).’ The rise of digital platforms has further blurred the line between servant and stage actor. The result? Ecclesial life becomes curated. Image becomes identity. And in such a context, the narcissist thrives.

One of the common threads in such leadership is the weaponisation of gifting. Their strength becomes a shield. Their voice drowns out dissent. They tear down others—often subtly, sometimes brazenly—because a rival is a threat. Criticism is cast as jealousy. Accountability is dismissed as slander. Even correction is spun as persecution.

And they get away with it. Not because no one sees, but because no one wants to deal with it. People know. They hear things, see patterns, experience the manipulation firsthand. But they don’t confront it—because they’ve seen what happens when others do. Those who speak up get sidelined, discredited, or quietly pushed out. The social cost of speaking truth becomes too high.

So the damage continues—quietly, relentlessly. People withdraw, elders resign, staff burn out, members leave confused and wounded. And all the while, the leader continues, undeterred and often unrepentant—because the machine keeps turning. Book sales continue, podcasts roll on, and conference invites still come.

It’s easier to let it go. After all, isn’t he preaching the gospel? Isn’t the ministry ‘bearing fruit’? But we must ask—what kind of fruit, and at what cost? Jesus warned us to judge not merely by results, but by character. A good tree bears good fruit. And yet, somehow, in our day, public gifting has become the new evidence of divine approval. We have baptised the cult of personality.

When a leader finally falls publicly, we act surprised. Shocked. Saddened. And yes, we should grieve. But let’s be honest—rarely is it truly unexpected. The collapse is usually preceded by years of warning signs. Whispers. Exit interviews. Quiet concern from those close to the inner circle. But no one wanted to be ‘that guy’—the one to cause a stir, the one to bring the heat.

Take the tragic case of Steve Lawson. The details are grievous, and the fallout real. But the sin was not sudden. For years, stories circulated—accounts of character issues, arrogance, domineering control. And yet, he was platformed again and again. Why? Because he was useful. Because he drew crowds. Because he was considered ‘sound.’

Lawson is one name, but he’s not the point. He is a case study in a broader malaise—a systemic failure to take character seriously in our leadership culture. What matters now is not the lone wolf but the scaffolding that allowed it all to stand: boards that excused it, friends who ignored it, followers who defended it, and a church culture that enabled it.

And this is where Michael Kruger’s imagery is searing: ‘In short, abusive pastors leave a ‘trail of dead bodies’ behind them. That’s what monsters do. So why don’t churches see the trail of dead bodies? Why don’t they connect the dots?'^[2]Michael J. Kruger, Bully Pulpit: Confronting the Problem of Spiritual Abuse in the Church (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Reflective, 2022), 61. The answer, Kruger argues, is that we often don’t want to see them. We have trained ourselves—culturally and ecclesiologically—not to look. Because if we see, we are compelled to act. And action costs.

But here is the uncomfortable truth: some of you reading this are nodding in agreement. You’re saying ‘Amen’ under your breath. You’ve seen the dead bodies. You’ve watched the manipulation unfold. You’ve known the names. And yet—you’ve said nothing. Perhaps out of exhaustion, fear, or just not wanting to stir up drama, you’ve kept your distance. But silence in the face of known injustice is not neutrality—it is complicity. The words, often misattributed to Edmund Burke, ring true here: The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

Brethren, let me exhort you: don’t turn away. Don’t look the other way when Christ’s sheep are being harmed. Don’t let the cost of action outweigh the call of faithfulness. Proverbs 24:11–12 states, ‘Rescue those being taken off to death, and save those stumbling toward slaughter. If you say, “But we didn’t know about this,” won’t he who weighs hearts consider it?’ You may not be able to fix everything—but you are called to do something. And doing nothing, when you do know, is a failure of love.

Paul told the Ephesians not only to avoid the unfruitful works of darkness, but to expose them (Eph. 5:11). That doesn’t mean public shaming or vengeful campaigns—it means truth-telling, protecting the vulnerable, and holding one another to account. Don’t be the man who sees the fire and walks past the burning house. Be the one who risks, who speaks, who loves enough to act. That is the way of Christ. And when too few are willing to walk that road—when courage gives way to comfort—systems suffer, and cultures corrode.

Sadly, we’ve so often confused faithfulness with fame. We’ve created celebrity pastors and then pretended to be victims of their collapse. But celebrity culture doesn’t exist without consumers. Narcissists thrive because systems tolerate them. Accountability breaks down because courage breaks down. Cowardice is not always passive—it is sometimes managerial.

What we need is not just better vetting—we need better ecclesiology. The local church is not a platform, the pastor is not a brand, the sheep are not a market, and the pulpit is not a stage. And when we treat it as such, we don’t just distort ministry—we deny Christ’s design for His church.

We also need deeper community. We don’t know each other well enough to correct, challenge, or walk alongside in our atomised, digitalised church life. The one anothers of Scripture require proximity. They demand real presence and personal investment. Without that, accountability becomes impossible. Vulnerability becomes unsafe. And narcissism becomes invisible.

Pastors are not exempt. In fact, they need more accountability, not less. Not in the form of suspicious oversight, but of brotherly transparency. A pastor who resists being known is a pastor unfit to lead. If no one can speak into his life—if he is always the most authoritative voice in the room—that’s not leadership. It’s idolatry with a theological halo.

Character matters. It matters more than gifting. More than growth. More than reach. The qualifications for elders that we see in Scripture are overwhelmingly moral, not intellectual. We’ve inverted the order, and now we’re reaping the results. We’ve confused the ability to teach with the fitness to shepherd.

This isn’t about witch-hunts or inquisitions. It’s about reformation. Not the dramatic, headline-grabbing kind, but the deep, quiet work of renewing the church from the inside out. The kind that starts in the pulpit—but doesn’t end there. It must extend into the staff meeting, the elder session, and the casual conversations after the service. It must shape our instincts, our structures, our expectations, and even our tolerances. Because when we tolerate what Scripture forbids, we grieve the Spirit and distort the gospel.

We need churches that prize integrity over optics. That resist the urge to manage appearances and instead cultivate the fruit of the Spirit. That measure a man’s readiness to lead not by his giftings or his reach, but by his gentleness, patience, and ability to love those who cannot repay him. We need churches that would rather lose followers than lose their soul. That would rather be forgotten by the world than be flattered by it. That would rather be faithful in obscurity than flourish in compromise.

Friends, the church does not need more celebrity. It needs more cruciformity. It needs leaders who know what it is to die daily, to carry the cross, to decrease so that Christ may increase. It needs congregations willing to trade relevance for repentance and influence for integrity. The health of the church will not be found in charisma or numbers but in the kind of godliness that can only be forged in secret, in weakness, and in community.

And, likewise, if we want churches that cultivate integrity, leaders must cultivate it in themselves—not defensively, but humbly. Healthy church cultures are not suspicious and censorious, nor are they uncritical and deferential. They are shaped by the gospel—a gospel that critiques us far more deeply than any human ever could, but also frees us from needing the approval of man. Churches must see in their pastors a willingness to receive correction, admit weakness, and seek accountability, not as a concession of failure but as an act of faithful leadership. We don’t need pulpits protected by silence or platforms insulated by loyalty. We need leaders who preach Christ crucified and are themselves being crucified with Him—dying to pride, open to correction, and modelling the very gospel they proclaim. Such pastors, and such churches, will not fear criticism, because they will already have been shaped by the cross.^[3]On this, I recommend slowly mediating upon Joel R. Beeke and Nick Thompson, Pastors and Their Critics: A Guide to Coping with Criticism in the Ministry (Phillipsburg, NJ: P&R Publishing, 2020).

Ultimately, the goal isn’t simply to cancel narcissists. It’s to cultivate shepherds. Gentle, lowly, firm, wise. Men who resemble Christ—not just in doctrine, but in demeanour. The Chief Shepherd was not brash, self-promoting, or domineering. He was meek. He laid down His life. And those who bear His name must bear His likeness.

We will always have gifted men. And that is good. But gifting must never outrun godliness. We must build churches where character is the platform, and Christ is the centre. Not ego. Not empire. Not brand. Just Christ—crucified, risen, and sufficient.