I wrote a book about AI and faith.

God and the Machine hits shelves with Abingdon Press. I get asked to speak about AI in ministry. I get tagged in the threads. I get the DMs.

And somewhere in there, the label started sticking: AI expert.

But, here’s the thing… I am not an AI expert.

I do not have a degree in computer science.
I cannot tell you how a transformer model handles attention weights.

And I’m not saying this in an ‘imposter syndrome’ kind of way. I’m wanting to instead be crystal clear about who I actually am in this conversation.

I don’t want to be an expert in AI.

What I have is a degree in theology, a degree in communications with a focus in electronic media, and almost a decade of pastoring nerds, geeks, and gamers in digital space. That’s the resume. That’s the receipts.

So when people ask me to opine on AI, I want to be honest about what I’m actually qualified to say.

The Question Underneath the Question

Here’s what I think people are actually asking when they ask if I’m an AI expert: Should I trust your take on this?

That’s a fair question. It deserves a real answer.

My answer is that I hope I’m an expert in something more useful than AI: human relationships. How communities form. How people get hurt. How a pastor decides whether a tool belongs in the room with the people they’ve been called to serve.

That’s the lens I bring to AI.

I care much less about whether this technology is ‘cool’ and far more about if this technology is good for the humans I love. It’s this key distinction that led me to write this article at all.

If you’ve read the book, you already know this. God and the Machine isn’t really a book about AI.

It’s a book about us — about what AI reveals about what we already believe about being human, being in community, being creatures who were made for relationship before we were made for productivity.

The AI is the occasion. The humans are the subject.

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Why This Matters for the Pastor in the Room

There’s a temptation in our field right now to defer to whoever sounds the most technical. The pastor who can list five LLMs gets the mic. The one who built a chatbot for their church gets the conference slot.

I’m not knocking those folks — some of them are my peers and I learn from them.

But the question of should we use this is not a technical question. It’s a pastoral one. It’s a theological one. It’s a question about what we owe the people we serve.

And on those questions, the pastor in the room is the expert. Not the engineer. Not the platform. Not the guy on Twitter with a blue check and a prompt library.

You.

Do you feel the weight there? You should. We’re being watched.

What I’m Actually Offering

When I write about AI here, when I show up on a podcast, when I get up to speak — I’m not offering you a technical credential. I never was.

I’m offering you the thing pastors have always offered: a way of asking better questions in community.

Questions like who is this hurting? Questions like who is this serving, and at whose expense? Questions like what does loving my neighbor look like when my neighbor is afraid of the tool I’m holding?

Those questions don’t need an AI expert. They need a pastor who’s done the work of discerning who they’re called to serve, and isn’t willing to throw those people overboard for a faster sermon prep.

So no, I’m not an AI expert.

I’m a pastor who knows a little bit about AI and a lot about people.

That’s the credential I’m offering. That’s the work I’m willing to be paid for. That’s the table I’m inviting you to.

If you found your way here because of God and the Machine — welcome. I’m glad you’re here.

You probably picked up the book because something about AI and ministry is nagging at you. Maybe your peers are too enthusiastic and you’re the skeptic in the group chat. Maybe your peers are too fearful and you’re the one quietly experimenting. Maybe you just want someone to ask better questions with, and the people around you keep landing in one of two unhelpful places:

• “This is obviously evil — avoid it at all costs.”

• “This is obviously amazing — use it for everything immediately.”

Neither response is very pastoral. Neither response is very Wesleyan, either.

If that’s you, the book was the beginning of a conversation — not the end of one. And the place that conversation keeps happening is a small room called the Digital Missional Network.

What it actually is

DMN is a Discord-based community for pastors and ministry leaders doing digital work — the dreamers, the weirdos, the ones building ministry in Twitch chats and Discord servers and wherever else people are actually showing up. It’s not a content dump. It’s not another webinar. It’s a workbench.

It’s also small on purpose. Right now it’s a couple dozen practitioners who actually know each other’s names.

Who it’s for

• Pastors feeling the loneliness of digital ministry

• Leaders who want peers at their level, not another conference

• People who are done reading think pieces and want to actually work

Who it’s not for

Anyone looking to go viral or build a personal brand. This is for people hoping to minister to real people online.

How to join

Become a paid subscriber to Pixel & Pulpit ($5/month or $50/year). You get the Discord: a room of peers who already live in the questions the book is asking.

👾 Become a paid subscriber and join the Digital Missional Network

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If you’re still circling, that’s fine. Stay on the free list. Read a few more posts. But if the book landed for you — the room is where the work continues.

There’s a line I keep coming back to lately:

A new tool shows up… and the Church immediately tries to decide whether it’s the Antichrist or the answer to all our problems.

So I hopped on The Bearded Theologians Podcast with Revs. Matt Franks and Zach Bechtold to talk about my book, God and the Machine: Navigating Faith in the Age of AI—and also to talk about what’s happening underneath the AI conversation.

I wrote God and the Machine because I kept living in the middle of two worlds.

On one side: the people I pastor—especially nerds, geeks, gamers, digital natives—there are those who feel the anxiety in their bones. They’re watching artists get scraped. They’re watching the environment get strained. They’re watching the internet get flooded with content that feels… hollow.

On the other side: church and ministry spaces where people are hyped, ready to automate everything, and posting AI trend images like it’s a spiritual gift.

We talk a bit about AI, but a good chunk of this conversation revolved around digital ministry, my true bread and butter.

I share one of my favorite stories about how I knew that Checkpoint has created something special. In Discord, someone posts a prayer request… and someone else responds before I even wake up. Not because I’m failing as a pastor—because the community is becoming the community.

That’s a kind of discipleship you don’t always get in a room where everything depends on the pastor being the hub. In digital space, care can become a shared reflex. People carry each other.

In the episode, I talk about the paradox:

We want people to open Discord instead of doomscrolling.
But we don’t want to become a “better” doomscroll.

We want freedom, not addiction with a Christian skin.

And the wild thing is… we’ve seen people choose that freedom. Some folks step away from the feeds entirely and keep community through healthier channels.

A surprisingly practical moment: boundaries and burnout

The Bearded Theologians also asked a question that matters for every pastor, digital or not: How do you ever stop working when the ministry is on your phone?

And I answer it with the least mystical truth possible: Notifications are optional.

So is the expectation that you’re always available.

I talk about what it looks like to build office hours culture in a digital community, how to create “emergency lanes” without making everything an emergency, and how tools can help us set boundaries—not just break them.

There’s also a detail in there that I love because it’s so simple: using phone settings that reduce the “pull” of the screen at night. Not because technology is evil, but because pastors are human.

Listen + next step

If you want a faith-forward, practical conversation about AI, digital community, and what it means to stay human while the tools evolve—go listen to my episode on The Bearded Theologians Podcast.

And if you’re in a church that needs a way to talk about this together, God and the Machine was written to be read in community. It includes a built-in study flow, leader support, and a path toward creating healthy boundaries that fit your people.

Get the book: Cokesbury | Amazon
Make it a Bible Study: Cokesbury | Amazon

Last week, I was in Chicago for the final gathering of the Phygital Fellows. It was the culmination of two years of work together. Nineteen of us gathered to share what we had learned, what we had tried, and where we thought things might go next.

Everyone had their own way of presenting. Some people shared research. Some shared stories from their projects. Some reflected on their journey through the program.

For my slot, I decided to do something experiential.

Instead of presenting about the Pixel Pilgrimage, I wanted them to experience a little bit of it themselves.

Phygital Fellow’s Substack

Finding Pilgrimage In Video Games: Why Game Worlds Make Perfect Spiritual Journeys

I was first called into the digital ministry landscape in 2020 – that all-too-familiar era of livestreaming churches becoming the norm amidst a pandemic…

Read more

3 months ago · 3 likes · 1 comment · Phygital Fellows and Nathan Webb

So I led them through a micro Pixel Pilgrimage using the opening twenty minutes of Neva, which was the very first Pixel Pilgrimage we ever did.

Now, the important detail here is the room I was in.

This was a room of more than twenty people, most of whom do not play video games. A few of them played growing up. A couple play games with their kids. I know at least one person who plays sports games and another who will occasionally try out big AAA releases.

But, generally speaking, this is not a group that would have sought out something like the Pixel Pilgrimage on their own.

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So before we started, I tried to set the table a little bit.

I walked them through the ground rules. I talked about the four questions we use during the pilgrimage. I encouraged them to write down an intention or two before we began.

One thing I specifically encouraged them to name was doubt.

If you are not a gamer, name that.
If you think this experience probably isn’t for you, name that too.

Don’t leave that at the door. Bring it with you and see what happens.

Then… we started the game.

I mostly stayed quiet during the experience. I occasionally pointed out a moment in the narrative, but for the most part, I let the game speak for itself and encouraged people to jot down notes as they watched.

After about twenty minutes, we stopped.

The room was quiet.

Not the awkward silence of confusion, but the kind of quiet that happens when people are actually thinking about something—processing it.

What surprised me the most was how seriously everyone took it.

This was a captive audience, sure. They were there because it was part of the program. But even with that, there are plenty of ways people could have kept some distance from the experience. They could have treated it as a curiosity. They could have mentally checked out. They could have said to themselves, “This isn’t really my thing.”

But they didn’t. They leaned in and went on the journey with me.

One moment in particular really stuck with me.

After we finished, one person began reflecting out loud about what they had just experienced. Earlier they had mentioned that they were not a gamer anymore. They even said they were bad at video games when they had tried them in the past.

But that didn’t matter here.

Because in this format they didn’t have to wrestle with the game mechanics. They didn’t have to worry about failing or struggling with controls. They could just engage with the story.

And almost immediately, they began connecting the opening of the Neva to their own life over the past few years. They started naming parts of their own journey through the lens of the story we had just walked through together.

That moment really clicked something into place for me.

It reminded me that this is actually very similar to what happens on a physical pilgrimage.

When you go on a pilgrimage, you usually go with someone who knows the terrain. You’re not expected to know the roads or the landmarks ahead of time. The guide helps you move through the space. They can move at your pace or slow things down when necessary.

The Pixel Pilgrimage works the same way.

Removing the barrier of gameplay opened the door for someone who normally wouldn’t have access to this kind of experience.

Several people came up to me afterward and said something along the same lines.

“I’m not a gamer. This isn’t something I would normally do. But now I’m curious.”

One person told me that if they saw another opportunity like this in the future, they would absolutely sign up for it.

That was incredibly encouraging to hear.

But it also clarified something important for me.

The Pixel Pilgrimage works.

If it can resonate with a room full of non-gamers, then it makes perfect sense that it resonates with gamers. The structure works. The Spirit shows up. The reflections happen.

The real question is something else entirely.

How do people find it?

Because nobody is going to participate in something they have never heard of.

Gamers or non-gamers, it doesn’t matter. If the experience never enters their line of sight, they will never have the opportunity to step into it.

So the real challenge moving forward isn’t proving that the Pixel Pilgrimage is meaningful.

It’s making sure people encounter it.

In some ways, this reminds me of a small moment in the Gospel of John.

When Philip tells Nathanael that they’ve found the Messiah, Nathanael’s response is skeptical, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

Philip doesn’t launch into an argument. He doesn’t try to prove anything.

He simply says, “Come and see.”

That posture feels right to me.

I don’t think the Pixel Pilgrimage needs to be forced on anyone. Foisting it on people would probably do more harm than good. Experiences like this work best when people step into them willingly.

But the invitation still matters.

People need someone who will say, “Come and see.”

The Chicago experience reinforced something I’ve been sensing for a while.

What the Pixel Pilgrimage needs now are people who have experienced it and are willing to share it with others. People who can tell the story. People who can invite others to try it.

People who can say, “Come and see what happens when a video game becomes a pilgrimage.”

Because once people actually step into the experience, something interesting tends to happen: they discover something they weren’t expecting to find.

And if you’re a Christian who feels a little behind the curve, uneasy, or just tired of the constant hype and doom… you’re not alone.

That’s why I’m hosting a simple, accessible on-ramp conversation.

God, AI & Us: A Faithful Introduction to Artificial Intelligence

Thursday, February 19, 2026 — 11 AM CT
(That’s 12 PM ET / 9 AM PT)

Why this conversation, and why now?

A lot of the AI discussion Christians encounter tends to land in one of two places:

• “This is obviously evil—avoid it at all costs.”

• “This is obviously amazing—use it for everything immediately.”

Neither response is very pastoral.
Neither response is very Wesleyan, either.

I keep noticing the temptation to skip discernment, skip community wisdom, and skip the hard (but holy) work of asking better questions.

So, I want us to slow down long enough to ask what it means to engage AI as disciples. As people who believe God is present in a changing world, and who want our posture to look like Jesus.

What we’ll cover

This is an introductory session—think tutorial level, not a graduate seminar.

We’ll talk about:

• What AI actually is (in plain language, without tech jargon)

• Why it feels spiritually charged (even when people pretend it’s purely “neutral”)

• The theological questions it raises: about personhood, truth, creativity, wisdom, community, and power

• A values-based posture for discernment—so you’re not stuck reacting to every new headline

• Grace-filled possibilities that are easy to miss when the conversation stays fearful

I’ll be drawing on themes from my book God and the Machine, but you don’t need to have read it to attend. This is designed to be accessible for people who are curious, cautious, skeptical, or just trying to get their bearings.

What I’m hoping you walk away with

My goal isn’t to convince you AI is “good” or “bad.”

Instead, I’d like to leave you with:

• clarity about what AI is and why it matters,

• a faithful framework for discernment,

• and permission to ask better questions—in community, without shame.

How to join

Register here

And if you already know the question you want to ask—but you’re not sure how to phrase it—bring it anyway. This is exactly the kind of space where we can be learners together.

There was a time when people thought writing things down would wreck faith.

Memory would rot.
Wisdom would flatten.
Truth would get weaker the moment it wasn’t carried face-to-face.

Then the printing press showed up and people made the same prediction in new clothes… the church would splinter, scripture would get “too accessible,” everything would go off the rails.

Every single time… God kept working.

That’s the frame the hosts of Means of Grace opened with, and it’s the reason I was glad to join them to talk about my debut book, God and the Machine.

AI is one of those “new tool” moments where the church is at a breaking point.

AI is a tool — not one with magical powers. And it’s a tool, like many before it, that exposes what we reach for when we’re tired: speed, polish, efficiency, certainty.

And if you’ve spent any time in ministry, you already know how seductive that combo is—especially when you’ve got a sermon deadline and fifteen other plates spinning.

In the episode, I talk about why I wrote the book from the position I did: I’m an elder in the conference, and I’m also the founding pastor of Checkpoint Church, a digital-first community built for nerds, geeks, and gamers. We meet primarily on Discord. Technology isn’t a side hobby for us—it’s the environment.

And I’ve watched two groups drift into a collision course:

• folks who treat AI like the shiny answer to everything

• folks who feel their stomach drop every time someone brings it up

My goal with this conversation isn’t to hand you a verdict. It’s to offer a way to stay grounded while the ground is moving.

The moment that drew the line for me

At one point, we talk about an “AI Jesus” that showed up on Twitch—a generated Jesus face responding to people’s questions in chat.

And the trouble was — AI Jesus wasn’t doing a bad job. The responses weren’t always a disaster. Some of them sounded… comforting. Useful. Like something you could imagine someone sharing as “encouragement.”

That’s exactly why it’s dangerous.

Because it trains people to accept a simulation of spiritual relationship as if it carries the weight of the real thing. It teaches us to confuse a responsive machine with a present God. Even when it “sounds right,” it reshapes the instincts underneath us: who we trust, what we turn to, what we expect from faith.

That’s one of the big red flags I keep coming back to in my own discernment: the moment AI stops being a tool and starts trying to become a companion.

The pastoral temptation nobody wants to say out loud

We also name the question every pastor eventually runs into: What about sermons?

Because yes—AI can generate something clean. Sometimes it even sounds better than the first draft you fought for. And if you’re already stretched thin, the temptation isn’t theoretical. It’s sitting right there, asking if you want to save an hour. Or ten.

In the episode, I share where I draw lines for myself, and why I keep returning to a simple Christian center of gravity: love God, love neighbor, do good, do no harm.

Not as a slogan. As a filter.

Because AI doesn’t just change how fast you can produce content—it presses on what you think ministry is for.

If this topic has made you curious—or nervous—or both—this episode of Means of Grace is for you. And if you’re trying to lead a community through this without pretending you have it all figured out, God and the Machine is written to be wrestled with together, not just skimmed alone.

Get the book: Cokesbury | Amazon
Make it a Bible Study: Cokesbury | Amazon

It feels like every AI conversation eventually turns into a culture war. And I get why.

In my circles, it’s basically become a loyalty test: you’re either all-in on AI, or you’re suspicious of it to the point that even bringing it up feels like you’re committing a social sin.

That’s one of the reasons I went on Compass: Finding Spirituality in the Everyday — not to tell you “AI is good” or “AI is evil,” but to name the weirder, quieter danger underneath all the hot takes:

What if AI doesn’t just change what we do… but changes what we reward?

Because here’s a thing that actually happened online during the early wave of image generation: Facebook got flooded with what people now call “AI slop” — mass-produced, low-effort content designed to trigger engagement. And one of the strangest recurring trends was… Jesus.

Not historic Jesus. Not stained-glass Jesus.

I mean shredded Jesus.

The algorithm figured out that if it posted an uncanny AI image of Jesus, people would comment “amen.” And if people comment “amen,” the machine learns: post more Jesus.

So it posts more. And more. And more.

It’s not trying to evangelize. It’s trying to optimize.

And that’s the moment I start to get nervous for the church — because if your measure of “ministry effectiveness” is attention, then AI will happily hand you attention. But it will also quietly train your instincts toward whatever gets the reaction.

That’s the sentence I said in the episode that I can’t stop thinking about:

“Ethics is the heartbeat. I don’t want virality, clicks, or success driving the car.”

Because if “what performs” becomes the thing that drives us, the church doesn’t need a theology of AI. It needs rehab.

So what do we do with that?

I think the first step isn’t panic or hype. It’s something I call wary curiosity — the willingness to ask better questions before we outsource our discernment to whatever’s trending.

And yeah, I’m still convinced AI can be used for real good — especially when it comes to accessibility and helping people actually be seen and included online. But the line between “helpful tool” and “spiritual formation by algorithm” is thinner than we want to admit.

If you’ve ever felt that tension — like you want to be responsible, but you also don’t want to be naive — that’s what we talked about on Compass. And it’s what my book God and the Machine is trying to give you: not a hot take, but a way to stay human while the tech keeps changing.

Listen to the episode. And if you catch yourself thinking, “Okay… so what are the guardrails?” — that’s the conversation I wrote the book for.

Get the book: Cokesbury | Amazon
Make it a Bible Study: Cokesbury | Amazon

My huge project from last summer has been revealed: I have been writing a book with the wonderful folks at Abingdon Press, now available for pre-order with an official release on January 20th.

The title is God and the Machine: Navigating Faith in the Age of AI — what’s funny about this title is that everything before the colon is precisely what I would have expected my first professional book to be about, but if you had told me back in 2020 the overwhelming nature of AI on my world, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine it.

And yet, here we are. The world of AI has only grown more parasitic, at worst, and like a forever roommate, at best.

Here’s what I really love about this book: it’s not really giving you advice on how to best use AI to get-rich-quick or multiply your ministry. I offer some tips and tricks, sure — but the heart of this work mirrors my own.

Since day one (or at least the first public launch of ChatGPT), I have been in the fray with all of those technologists exploring the application of Artificial Intelligence in ministry settings.

Much to the dismay of many of my peers, however, I have been the thorn in their side — constantly clanging warning bells and waving red flags at how we are inappropriately incorporating the tool.

When my peers have been against AI, I’ve stood firmly in the phase of wise exploration. And when my peers have been too enthusiastic about AI, I’ve stood firmly in the pursuit of humanity and ethics.

This is the energy with which I am approaching AI in the book, and I hope you’ll find it a breath of fresh air. I know as well as anyone — it feels like this is all everyone talks about anymore. My work here is to try to enter into that feeling and offer a way forward.

If AI isn’t going anywhere, then those of us in ministry settings can at least be asking the right questions (or any questions at all, really) about what AI looks like going into the future. Will it be treated more like the printing press, radio, television, and the Internet — or will it be more along the lines of the Borg Assimilator?

This book is my offering on how I believe the Church would be best suited not only to utilize AI but also to serve as ethical leaders in setting tactical boundaries for its application.

In this light, I’m pleased with the partnership and support of Abingdon Press, which has formed this book into something like a Bible Study — each chapter has a scriptural grounding (or several), and there is an accompanying Leader Guide with assets and guided study, if you want to bring this to your small group or church community or reading group.

If you’re interested in having me speak or as a guest on your podcast as promotion, please do reach out to me at nwebb@wnccumc.net, and I will field those requests going forward. I’d love for this book to reach as wide an audience as possible — from AI skeptics to AI enthusiasts — and I believe it can serve as common ground for building a future with AI as a toolset, not an ideology or a boogeyman.

What people are saying so far about God and the Machine:

In God and the Machine, Nathan Webb invites us to look for the Holy Ghost humming beneath the circuitry. Although with technology comes fear or fascination, this work is about faith and what it means to be human when our tools begin to talk back. Webb writes with the heart of a pastor and the curiosity of a technologist, tracing the fine line between creation and co-creation. His words remind us that grace still moves faster than any algorithm and that even in the glow of a screen, the image of God endures.

Matt Rawle, Lead Pastor of Carrollton UMC in New Orleans and St. Matthews UMC in Metairie, LA, and author of The Redemption of Scrooge and The Final Days: A Lenten Journey Through the Gospels

Ready or not, here Al comes. Already this new technology is radically impacting our daily lives, and all of us — especially people of faith — need to think deeply and critically about our relationship to it. God and the Machine is a helpful introduction to this important, cutting-edge conversation. Nathan Webb thoughtfully explains both the challenges and opportunities that Al presents and calls us to see it as a tool to be engaged in ways that are grounded in faithfulness to our tradition. Don't miss this book!

Josh Scott, Lead Pastor of GracePointe Church in Nashville, TN, and author of Bible Stories for Grown-Ups: Reading Scripture with New Eyes

I want to take a point of personal privilege here and thank the supporters here on Pixel & Pulpit. You’ve been in my corner for years, and reading my writing before I had any idea what I was doing. It means the world to be able to share this news with those of you here.

There is plenty of the story of Checkpoint Church captured in these pages. My work in digital ministry bleeds through the words — my heart and passion have always been and will always be for the digital natives. I chose to do the work of navigating AI because I see the human beings online who are being impacted.

I also continue to have a passion for my fellow digital ministers. This is a big year for the Digital Missional Network as we find our footing. If you’ve been hesitating to join, I highly encourage you to invest your time and self now. Join a growing group of like-minded ministry leaders who are working intentionally together to better love our digital neighbors.

As an added incentive, I’ll be giving away an author-signed copy of God and the Machine with an accompanying Leader’s Guide on launch day to all members of the Digital Missional Network, so be sure to join before the 20th for entry.

2025 brought about a lot of change and experimentation for me. I published dozens of articles—quite beyond the norm for this publication.

In an attempt to see if this could be a form of financial success, I tried monetizing and launching the Saturday Side Quest. This was a fun experiment, but ultimately revealed that I was shooting for the wrong star.

I pivoted around the mid-year mark with the most significant swing I’ve taken so far: launching the Digital Missional Network.

One of the key sources of stress in planting a digital church has been finding a network of peers at a similar level in terms of the demands of the job and the specificities of the mission field.

The network grew quickly at first (to over 15!), but has stagnated a bit over the past couple of months.

Since forming, we’ve found a sort of flow in the Discord server that the network calls home. There are frequent check-ins and celebrations, and even more frequent questions about what on earth we’re doing in this work.

It’s been an invaluable resource for me, and I am thankful for those willing to enter into the space with me. While I am facilitating the space, I also see it deeply as a part of my own need being met.

Starting already in the new year has been an attempt to do some co-working together, which I am setting time aside for weekly on Mondays. This is a new perk of joining!

We also took a fascinating survey of the landscape of nerd ministry. I am still checking the data here and applying it to the work I hope to offer.

I’ve tried to see this space as a sort of ‘one for me, one for you’ kind of environment. The articles I write tend to oscillate between more personal writing of my own experience and outward-facing writing meant to serve as resources for this community.

Ultimately, I think the grander pivot in this space has been moving away from the financial connotation of the articles towards the entire monetization element being connected to the Digital Missional Network. I think this is a beneficial step towards what I want to actually be offering in my work.

As I look towards the year ahead, I have some huge hills to climb.

Starting in January, I will lead with a substantial announcement; more on that next week. This will make for a sizable shift in the environment of this Substack, I expect. I admit it is one I am nervous for, but excited for as well. It’s been a long time coming, and I am eager to show you what I’ve been working on.

I also want to put more of my energy into the Digital Missional Network. One way I am striving to be more present in that space is by offering more synchronous interaction, such as body-doubling via coworking or something similar. More than just questions, I suppose.

Another primary goal is to really ask the question: What do we mean by missional? I want those gathered to pursue at least one mission-oriented goal in the coming year, and we can work together to discover exactly what that might mean.

That’s probably enough for this reflection. I hope you’ll let me know in the comments some of the highlights of your year in 2025, so I can celebrate all the hard work you put in.

See you next week for some big news!

If you’re anything like me, you probably learned how to read in levels.

I went through the U.S. school system here in the southeast. I took AP English. I loved English. I learned how to close read—how to pick apart a poem, how to notice why this word is here and not that word, how to sit with a paragraph until it gave up its secrets.

Then I went to seminary, where that got turned up to eleven.

We learned how to read Scripture on an exegetical level. That means we don’t just skim a passage and call it a day. We tear it apart. We want to understand:

• the etymology of the words,

• the context it was written in,

• who wrote it,

• who probably didn’t write it,

• who influenced that writing,

• what was happening around it historically and theologically.

We want to understand everything about a text before we preach it.

That whole way of doing theology is often framed—especially in the Wesleyan world—as the Wesleyan Quadrilateral: Scripture, Tradition, Experience, and Reason. Scripture is the “seat of the stool,” and tradition, experience, and reason are the three legs that hold it up.

Reading The Well-Read Game pushed me to ask a simple but kind of dangerous question:

If this is how we read Scripture seriously…how might we read games seriously?

And that’s where this idea came from: The Gaming Quadrilateral.

From the Wesleyan Quadrilateral to the Gaming Quadrilateral

In the Wesleyan tradition, the Quadrilateral is how we do theological work:

• Scripture – the primary source

• Tradition – the history of the Church’s reflection

• Experience – what we have lived and sensed of God

• Reason – our God-given capacity to think and discern

I started wondering: what happens if I swap some words out and bring that same structure into my life as a lifelong gamer?

Could we propose that games should be experienced with:

• a “source material” at the center, and

• three supporting lenses: tradition, experience, and reason?

Could we create a Quadrilateral of Gaming that helps us read games like texts, not just consume them as content?

I think we can.

The Seat: Source Material (The Game Itself)

In theology, Scripture is the seat of the stool.

In the Gaming Quadrilateral, the seat is the source material: the game itself.

Not the marketing. Not the discourse. Not the speedrun meta. The actual game you’re playing:

• the code,

• the levels,

• the systems,

• the writing,

• the art,

• the music,

• the way your hands and body are invited to move through that world.

This is what Brian Upton would call the game as designed. It’s the literal thing in front of you—the “text” you’re engaging.

Before we talk about tradition, experience, or reason, we start by just asking: What is this game? What actually happens here?

Leg One: Tradition (The History Behind the Game)

Then there’s tradition.

In theology, tradition is the history of the Church’s reflection—creeds, councils, liturgies, centuries of people wrestling with God and neighbor.

In the Gaming Quadrilateral, tradition is the history of gaming that comes before this moment:

• the genre the game lives in,

• the series it belongs to,

• the games it’s quoting, subverting, or quietly stealing from.

To imagine you can truly understand Undertale without ever brushing up against EarthBound is… optimistic. You can absolutely enjoy it. But my experience of Undertale is different because I came in as someone who had already played EarthBound.

Same with RPGMaker horror/weird games. If you’ve never played Yume Nikki, your experience of later RPGMaker titles is going to land differently than someone whose brain has already been bent in that space.

So the tradition leg asks:

• What games, genres, or design philosophies are standing behind this one?

• What line of “ancestors” brought us here?

• What assumptions am I carrying because of the games I’ve played before?

There is a tradition of gaming, whether we name it or not. Bringing that tradition into awareness is part of reading a game well.

Leg Two: Experience (The Self That Shows Up to Play)

The second leg is experience.

In theology, experience is: what have I lived? Where have I seen God? What has suffering, joy, doubt, or healing done to my understanding?

In the Gaming Quadrilateral, experience is the you that shows up with the controller in hand.

Not just the body sitting on the couch, but the whole timeline of you that’s standing there:

• the kid who stayed up too late playing,

• the teenager who used games to survive,

• the adult who brings stress, grief, or delight into a save file.

When I play a Story of Seasons game now, I’m not just experiencing the cozy farming sim in front of me. I am also, all at once, 8-year-old Nathan sitting in front of a glowing TV with a GameCube controller, playing Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life at two in the morning.

No one else can bring that Nathan into the experience but me.

Same thing when I’m playing Hades II: I’m not only banging my head against Chronos. I’m also the Nathan who has already played Hades, who already knows this studio, this combat rhythm, this style of storytelling. That history is part of the text now.

Experience asks:

• What versions of me are standing beside me while I play this?

• What mental health, trauma, joy, theology, or nostalgia am I unconsciously bringing along?

• How is my identity (neurodivergence, church background, relationships, etc.) shaping what I notice?

This is where Howard Thurman’s double awareness comes in: I’m experiencing the game, and I’m also experiencing myself experiencing the game.

Leg Three: Reason (What’s Actually Going On Here?)

The third leg is reason.

In theology, reason is simply our God-given capacity to think things through. Scripture and tradition and experience give us raw material; reason helps us ask, “So what does this actually mean?”

In the Gaming Quadrilateral, reason is where we look at:

• what is literally happening in the game, and

• what those systems, choices, and outcomes suggest.

This connects back to Upton’s idea of games as designed, experienced, and understood:

• Designed – the code, systems, inputs and outputs.

• Experienced – your run through the loop, your victories and failures.

• Understood – your mental model of the rules, consequences, meanings, vibes, themes.

Reason is where we ask:

• What is this game telling me about power, success, failure, grace, violence, community?

• What do its systems reward and what do they punish?

• Where does what I say I believe line up—or not—with how I’m actually playing?

This is where a game like Hotline Miami hits differently. It’s not just: “I cleared the level, that was fun, the soundtrack slapped.” Reason forces us to walk back through the level in silence and ask, “Okay, but what did I just do? And why did that feel cool a minute ago?”

Putting the Gaming Quadrilateral to Work

All of this is neat in theory, but here’s why it’s stuck with me:

It feels like a concrete way to help people experience games on a deeper level, not just listen to me talk deeply about games.

As a pastor and as someone who runs a digital church for nerds, geeks, and gamers, I don’t just want to preach at people about games and theology. I want to equip them to do that work themselves.

The Gaming Quadrilateral gives us a simple framework for that.

Four Simple Questions

For any game (or even a single scene), you can ask:

1. Source Material (Game):

   • What actually happened? What did I see, hear, read, or do in this moment?

2. Tradition (History):

   • What other games or stories does this remind me of?

   • What expectations did I carry in because of those?

3. Experience (Me):

   • What am I bringing into this—age, mood, trauma, nostalgia, faith background?

   • What past version of me is standing next to me while I play?

4. Reason (Meaning):

   • Given all that, what might this game be saying about being human?

   • Where do I agree or push back—and why?

You could easily turn that into a one-page worksheet, a recurring discussion format in your game club, or a reflection guide for a sermon series.

Why This Matters (For Church and Beyond)

I’ll be honest: this whole idea convicted me a little.

If I really believe people should be experiencing games on a spiritual level—if that’s what I’m trying to do with Checkpoint Church, Pixel & Pulpit, nerdy sermons, Pixel Pilgrimages—then I can’t just keep modeling it from the front and hoping people catch on.

I need to give them tools.

The Gaming Quadrilateral is one of those tools.

• It honors games as art and text.

• It honors players as unique, unrepeatable readers of that art.

• It honors the history of the medium.

• It honors the act of thinking things through.

And it gives us a way to move from:

“It’s just a game, bro.”

to

“This game is doing something to me. I want to understand what—and what I’ll do with that.”

That’s the work of theology.
That’s the work of ministry.
That’s the work of being a more awake human being with a controller in their hands.

I’m walking away from The Well-Read Game with this concept lodged deeply in my brain: how do we equip others to experience games well?

The Gaming Quadrilateral is my first draft of an answer.

World 3-30 Complete

The internet promised us forever.

Every upload was a time capsule, every post a monument. We told ourselves permanence would dignify our work. If it lives on a server, then surely it matters. If it can be replayed, remixed, react-ed into eternity, then maybe—just maybe—we’ve outsmarted mortality.

And then an odd tenderness sneaks in through the cracks: a game that only exists on Halloween, a little itch page that wakes once a year so you can carve a pumpkin and then—poof—back to sleep.

Or Robert Ashley, sharing on his podcast that drops an episode sometimes years apart, telling the story of a game that was never made, and somehow the absence becomes the art, the negative space holds more feeling than a neatly shipped product.

Meanwhile, the algorithm taps its watch.

“Is this the next Undertale? Stardew? Is it 10/10 on YouTube?”

We’re trained to make only what can be ranked, archived, and SEO’d—objects sturdy enough to sit in a museum of feeds for the rest of time.

But most art isn’t a museum piece. Most art is a mayfly.

I’m reminded—daily—by the two artists living in my house, ages six and three.

They create constantly. The output is prodigious: church coloring sheets, school collages, accidental modernism done in glue stick and goldfish crumbs. We keep a few. Most of it… goes away. There’s a pang in admitting that. But the kids don’t make with a ledger. They don’t worry about archival-quality paper.

They make because making is the point. And then they make again.

My children don’t think in “content.” They think in crayons. They measure the day in smudges and scissor bits and tape. I save the keepers—the piece where the colors found each other just right, the note where a letter shape finally clicked. The rest becomes a short-term gallery on the fridge and then, respectfully, recycling.

I used to feel guilty about that. Now I’m starting to feel grateful. Their practice is saner than mine. There is just art. There is just making. There is just doing.

What if that’s not childishness but wisdom?

The un-collectible good

Permanence is a decent goal for certain things: marriage vows, covenants, the memory of someone we loved. But permanence is a poor framework for creativity. When “this must last forever” becomes a part of the process, we stop trying ideas that can’t carry the weight of forever. We bury the sketchbook and only show up with bronze statues.

Ephemeral art does a different kind of good:

• It teaches attention. If the game fades at midnight, you show up at 11:53. Scarcity becomes presence.

• It disarms perfectionism. If today’s thing expires, then it doesn’t need to be “the next Stardew Valley.” It just needs to be today’s offering.

• It invites play. The pumpkin’s face doesn’t have to be definitive. It only has to be delightful… for tonight.

Ephemera resists the permanence-pressure of the feed. Not everything needs to be optimized for a billion strangers and their grandkids. Not every livestream needs to be a library resource. Some things can do their work and then willingly make space for the next grace.

Make the thing that will not last.
Make it with care.
Make it like breath: in, out, given back.

Save a few. Let most go. Trust that endings are not failures; they are frames.

Live and let art die. And then—tomorrow—live and make again.

World 3-29 Complete

Hot take: the real literacy crisis isn’t that people don’t read enough books.

The real problem is that we aren’t experiencing art—books, shows, podcasts, games—on purpose.

We binge. We scroll. We let autoplay think for us.

In a world where attention is always being monetized, literacy isn’t just decoding words; it’s discipling our attention and response.

This is a media-literacy piece, sure—but more precisely, it’s a call to intentional media consumption.

Because the problem isn’t “not enough reading.” If you read one book a year and don’t pay attention to it, then what are we really doing here? The same goes for 100 books.

It’s uncritical, unintentional intake that forms us when we’re not looking.

We Should Be Reading… Everything

After a random recommendation from a creator I follow, I have been insatiably devouring the book The Well-Read Game by Tracy Fullerton and Matthew Farber. The authors present a sort of treatise for playing games in a way similar to how we were taught to do close readings in school.

This concept instantly clicked for me.

For five years at Checkpoint, I’ve been tactfully crafting a thoughtful process for exploring anime and video games, very similar to what I was trained to do in seminary: exegesis. This is a fancy term for nearly exactly what the authors of The Well-Read Game are suggesting.

As an aside, I’m hosting a live conversation on this book on Friday at 1 pm EST. Members of Discord are welcome to join the conversation with voice and video, but non-paying subscribers will still have access to the stream and the text-based chat here on Substack.

The sentiment at the core of this thesis is one that resonates deeply with me… it matters less what we consume and more how we consume it.

This is why Checkpoint has been unafraid to use media like the lewd anime My Dress-Up Darling, the cult simulator Cult of the Lamb, or the anti-church television series Midnight Mass in our sermons over the years.

There isn’t really anything in the world of art that is off limits. There is only a willingness to experience things with a level head and a willingness to be curious.

The Shift: From “How Much” to “How”

I’ve long been a proponent of people reading more books.

I’m an avid reader myself. And I personally find it challenging to hear that others do not read. But I’m working on moving past a simple call-to-action that people should stop doing whatever brings you joy and develop a joy of reading (even if that is true, in my opinion). Instead, I’m trying to encourage a new frame of thinking.

However you consume—read, watch, listen, play, whatever—do it deliberately, critically, and responsively.

White noise becomes worldview.
Background TV becomes baseline ideology or theology.
Our feeds catechize us.
If we don’t choose our liturgies, the algorithm chooses them for us.

Instead, consider using CPR to pursue healthy media literacy.

CPR: Choose. Pause. Respond.

I didn’t invent this, but I can’t find where I first heard it. It’s a helpful acrostic for intentionality. I encourage you to adopt this or a similar practice. Whether you do or not, I hope you’ll at least consider consuming whatever more beneficially.

Choose

• What am I hoping to get (rest, learning, wonder, community)?

• Why this piece and now? Did I pick it, or did the feed pick me?

Pause (during)

• What is this forming in me—fear, empathy, cynicism, curiosity?

• Who’s the hero and what do they love? What’s beautiful here? What’s broken?

Respond (after)

• What will I do with what I just consumed (share, journal, pray, create, discuss, change a habit)?

• How will I let this shape me on purpose?

Literacy isn’t about volume—it’s about volition. Not doing more media, but doing it on purpose. Becoming a more literate generation is not really about reading more books; it’s about interpreting anything responsibly.

Read the book. Watch the show. Play the game.

But choose it, pause inside it, and respond beyond it. That’s how we turn white noise into wisdom.

World 3-28 Complete

I’ll be honest — I’ve had a tough time with this newsletter recently.

Every time I’ve sat down to write something, there is just something wrong inside my heart. At the root of this discomfort, I think that the Internet just feels different in 2025. It’s darker. More tense — like there is danger lurking around every corner.

In a fleeing from that tension, I’ve leaned into this newsletter as a security blanket of algorithmic dependence. Put differently: I know a bit more about how to ‘make it’ online now. I’ve learned a good bit about how to play the game.

But it rings a bit hollow.

That’s not to say that I don’t think that the articles I’ve written so far this haven’t been useful. I believe I’ve done some of my best work this year.

Yet, amid that focused success, I’m not really doing what I want to do here.

The best thing I’ve done is launching the Digital Missional Network, of that there is no doubt. And I think I’ve written some vital insights into the world of digital ministry. But I think that I’ve lost some of the vision for this space serving those explicitly called to nerd ministry.

At a minimum, I’m finding myself turning away from articles I’d really like to write because they don’t fit the niche I’ve built here. I don’t like that. But I’m honestly not sure what to do about it.

As I write this, I’m even questioning if this is worth posting. I find myself asking: “Who cares?” I want to cry out to my logical brain that the one who cares is myself. Aren’t I worth writing for? Can I serve myself in this work?

Anyway, all of this is really just a peek into my brain right now. The more important work is what I will do about it.

A Vision for What’s Next

Over the past few months, I’ve been slowly honing my vision for my work.

One part of this is related to a significant project I finished a few weeks ago, which took quite a bit out of me creatively (more on that later).

But another is that I want to more fully realize who I am amid all this work. I’ve always presented my work as a practitioner, which won’t change. But I’m also trying to own my role as a theologian and academic in this space.

What does it look like to write, think, and pastor at the intersection of anime, video games, technology, pop culture… and faith?

Like this… I loved this post. But I got so obsessed with running a proper paid subscription that I got distracted. I’ll be unlocking all of the Saturday Side Quest blog as of this post. That’s no longer a perk of being a paid subscriber.

That’s where my vision is leading me. I want to do more in that arena. I want to keep offering insight into practitioner tips, sure. But I also want to really think about these things and be a voice for them. I want to put my money where my mouth is, so to speak. I’ve been walking the walk, but how do I talk the talk?

The word that is bubbling to the surface here is permission. I need to grant myself the permission to step into this work to which I’m called with boldness and confidence.

I’ve bound myself to the chains of the bare minimum. I’ve told myself that I need to do what will perform well for the algorithm. But maybe, in the flurry of AI slop and mass production of content, I need to refocus my efforts on depth, not width.

An example: I’ve recently pivoted on our Checkpoint spaces from always utilizing AI clipping websites to more intentional short-form content creation. I turned to AI because I was told that daily content was what was expected. But if everyone has access to that mindset and can create daily content with minimal effort, who stands out? I’d rather be a well-crafted thread of the tapestry of the World Wide Web than a hastily thrown-together strand.

What does this mean for you?

Almost certainly — nothing. Hopefully, the only meaningful impact on you, dear reader, is more of me bleeding through the e-ink on your screens.

I still fully intend to promote, curate, and lead the Digital Missional Network, which is the only tangible benefit for becoming a paid subscriber to this newsletter. All other benefits support a writer like me in this work that I’m offering the world free of charge.

Subscribe now

The focus for the writing will also remain unchanged. Digital-first ministry is my bread and butter; it’s hard not to write about it when I get started. I want to bring out more of the nerd portion of that concoction, but that isn’t a re-focusing; it’s an orientation this was always supposed to have.

If nothing else, I suppose this diatribe can serve as a sort of reminder for myself, the subscribers of this newsletter, and those who are wondering if they should hit subscribe or run far, far away from this rant. I’m not doing this work for the algorithm, I’m doing it for us. For flesh-and-blood innovators who want to pave the way forward for the digital natives who need to know they matter.

So, if that still fires you up, then I’m so glad you’re here. Share this newsletter with others who need to be fired up to do that work, too.

Share Pixel & Pulpit

World 3-27 Complete

We live in the Age of Attention.
Not the Information Age. Not even the Digital Age.

Attention has become our greatest commodity.

Our entertainment isn’t free—it’s purchased with time, focus, and our sacred capacity to notice. Advertisers are bidding for our attention so they can sell it to someone else. The result is life in an economy that thrives on distraction.

We pay to be entertained, and then we are sold to those who pay to keep us entertained. Entertainment has become the conduit for captivity.

As historic liberators, what is the role of the Church in this?

What if attention is not something to be spent, but something to be redeemed?

Competing for Holy Attention

For centuries, the Church has called people to prayer, worship, and communion—acts that require presence. But in today’s world, presence is the premium commodity. As I’ve written elsewhere, the competition isn’t the megachurch down the street. It’s Netflix, YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, and every other platform that profits from your next scroll (or, more likely, doomscroll).

The attention merchants have built digital sanctuaries more magnetic than most Sunday services. Their algorithms are modern-day evangelists, spreading gospels of consumption, comfort, and comparison.

And yet, the Church’s role has never been to out-entertain. It’s to out-purpose.

If the modern economy demands our attention for profit, then the Church must reclaim that same attention for purpose—for holiness, for community, for transformation.

A quote often attributed to John Wesley goes, “There is no holiness but social holiness.” This meant holiness could not be practiced in isolation; it required community.

In the 21st century, I believe the phrase is more true and essential than ever, but it might need a rephrasing for our attention economy:
There is no holiness but attentive holiness.

To follow Christ today requires the discipline of attention—choosing, moment by moment, to be fully present to God, to one another, and to ourselves. Attentive holiness looks like resisting the doomscroll long enough to exist.

It looks like noticing the voice on the other end of a Discord call, not as a username but as a person.

It looks like treating a YouTube comment section as a mission field instead of a war zone.

Our calling as digital ministers isn’t to fight for attention—it’s to redeem it. To transform screens from sites of consumption into sanctuaries of connection.

A Case Study in Liberating Attention

One of the more fascinating discoveries from my time with Checkpoint Church is the strong desire to flee from social media, yet remain in digital spaces.

Those like myself, the digital natives, find that the Internet is the most fulfilling way we’ve ever experienced our true selves, but there is also a severe lack that is being worsened routinely by those in Silicon Valley.

I believe that the Internet has revealed a fantastic gift of neo-monastic community building. From the old chatrooms and RSS feeds of the 00s to the current halls of Discord, we’ve stumbled into the next great awakening of personhood via community, especially with regard to the digital native. However, there has been a usurper — the technologist who is also fervently capitalist. The rapid monetization of each new platform and wave of web-based tech is a clear enough sign, as if the attention economy diatribe above isn’t.

The kicker is this: this isn’t the desire of the digital native.

At Checkpoint, we are wrapping up our second crowdfunding campaign on Indiegogo. It’s not going very well. The first didn’t either. However, we wanted to see if we could address some of the shortcomings from the first iteration. Instead, what we’ve realized is that our attempt isn’t the problem — the model is broken. And we broke it.

Crowdfunding sites rely on social media to spread and garner funding. The issue is that our Discord-based church has become a more fulfilling place for our community, so they’ve mostly left social media behind.

When I encourage our team to share the links to support us on their Facebook walls or Instagram feeds, most of them confess they don’t even have accounts anymore. Or they deleted the app from their phone.

Attention liberation is not only needed, but it is also clearly desperately desired, and — to be frank — not that hard to achieve. If a group of the chronically online nerds, geeks, and gamers of the world can find a way to escape the attention economy, then surely there is still hope.

The Church Beyond the Scroll

Digital churches, hybrid ministries, even the established churches of old—our task isn’t to mimic the entertainment industry. It’s to reframe it. To remind people that their attention is sacred because they are sacred. When someone stops to listen, even for a moment, that’s a miracle of focus in a distracted world.

That’s holy ground.

Maybe the Church’s next reformation isn’t architectural but attentional. Maybe the pews we’re meant to fill are timelines and livestreams. Maybe the “building” is less about where we gather and more about how we pay attention to each other in digital space.

If so, then every pastor, every content creator, every church communicator has one central mission: To teach people how to attend—faithfully, intentionally, and with love.

When we teach people to pay attention to what truly matters, we teach them to love as Christ loved, fully present, unhurried, and undistracted.

If holiness is social, then attentive holiness is its digital expression.

The Church’s greatest mission today may not be winning back cultural relevance—it may be redeeming the attention of our people from the noise.

Because when we choose to look up from the endless scroll, when we give our attention to something eternal, we find that God has been paying attention to us all along.

World 3-26 Complete

Q: Why did the church install an LED cross?
A: So it could finally get some light engagement.

Thanks to everyone who weighed in on our recent polls! Your answers sketch a revealing picture of where digital ministry leaders stand today—full of energy, but also wrestling with capacity, strategy, and sustainability.

1. Fired Up, But Figuring It Out

• Most of us are excited or cautiously curious. But then there are some feeling overloaded and burnt out.
  👉 Leaders believe in digital ministry’s potential, but there’s hesitation: how do we do this well without burning out? How do we do this well… at all?

2. Engagement is the Pain Point

• Over half of those polled were frustrated with sparking real engagement online. In a digital age where we are all vying for attention all of the time, how else could we possibly feel? This is an important insight.

3. Platforms: Spread Wide or Go Deep?

• Our most varied poll was likely the disarray of platforms, and which is right for us. However, there is an acknowledgement that — once we find the right platform — it can still be a struggle to iterate on strategy there.

4. Advertising: Risky but Tempting

• Nearly all of those polled were at least open to advertising online, but a chunk found the results unhelpful.

  This was a random one I threw in out of curiosity. With the pay-to-play model becoming more and more popular, I was interested to see who had done the experiments.

5. The Looming Question: AI In Ministry

• Nearly everyone finds artifical intelligence useful, but also agrees that guard-rails are needed.

  I was anxious about this one and would likely have worded it differently in hindsight. More on this coming soon.

6. Where should we be online?

• The most surprising results for me — half of those polled still hold strong for the power of the live-stream.

  It doesn’t take long on this Substack to find my leaning towards Discord primarily, but this was helpful to know for future writing.

7. A Tie, But No Metaverse

• Close to a three-way tie between outreach, collaboration, and seeking out funding — with no focus on discipleship in game worlds.

  At a minimum, it appears my target audience here has shifted, and I’m reaching fewer and fewer gaming-centered ministries. But digital ministers all seem to be sharing focus on these topics.

8. Volunteers: Moldable and Skilled

• We are looking for volunteers who are savvy and capable of being trained.

  Another random poll here. I was mostly curious given the tension of non-local volunteers being necessary for digital spaces.

I really encourage you to sound off in the comments below. What about these results surprised you? What stood out? What did you learn from taking this poll for yourself? FYI, it’s still live for like 115 years, so go take the polls anytime! Maybe we’ll revisit them at another time in the future.

World 3-25 Complete

In just a few weeks, I’ll be walking the streets of Boston with a cohort of fellow digital ministers—The Phygital Fellows.

In preparation for this pilgrimage, I’m reading a selection of Howard Thurman’s essays (specifically the Essential Writings collection) and meditating on his theological witness. The goal is to think deeply not just about digital (and by proxy, nerd) ministry, but about our presence in it—how we show up, what we carry, and how God meets us both online and off.

Reading Thurman through a nerd-ministry lens is maybe not how these essays were intended to be engaged—but that’s the joy of one’s calling.

We’re not just theologians; we’re streamers, Discord admins, content creators, game designers, and digital chaplains.

And for many of us, gaming is not just a hobby—it’s a liturgical act. It's a space where meaning is made, where identities are shaped, and where spiritual truth sneaks in through pixels and controller vibrations.

The Game Never Stops

One line from Thurman struck me deeply:

The individual has never completely been one with his experiences. He remains always observer and participant.

That line lives rent-free in my soul now.

It names something I’ve felt for a long time about both ministry and the spiritual life. Namely, that we are never only living—we are also watching ourselves live. We are doing and narrating, feeling and analyzing, responding and reflecting. There’s always a part of us just off to the side, taking notes on the whole thing.

Thurman links this dynamic to divine encounter.

In the presence of God, we’re offered a holy pause—a moment where our past doesn't disappear, but quiets. We see our patterns. We hold our wounds differently. And we get a glimpse of who we are rather than just what we’ve done.

The observer and participant work together. Transformation happens not by scrubbing our history away, but by stepping far enough outside it to reframe it.

And here’s where I find games—especially narrative-heavy or decision-based games—to be a profound spiritual tool.

Why Games Transcend

I’ve always appreciated John Green’s line about books:

Whenever we read books, we’re the closest to living the life of another character.

But I think games go further than that.

Books let us feel for someone else.
Games make us feel like someone else—but crucially, they also reveal who we are in the process.

Games don’t ask us to become Holden Caulfield from Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. They ask: What would you do if you were in Holden’s position?

Would you rebel?
Would you confess?
Would you run?
Would you stay?

That’s the radical thing about gaming—it lets us participate in a story while also observing the decisions we make inside it. We become both actor and audience to our own instincts. That tension—between immersion and detachment—isn't just a mechanic. It’s a mirror. And often, it’s a moment of grace.

Inside Out and Outside In

I think this is what Thurman saw in divine experience. And that’s what I think games offer us, too: a pause, a question, a glimpse of ourselves outside ourselves.

As digital ministers—especially in nerd spaces—we see this all the time.

A Twitch stream isn’t just content. It’s communal witness. A Discord prayer request channel isn’t just a message board. It’s sacred ground. And every time someone plays a game and realizes, “Oh, I didn’t expect myself to make that choice,” they’ve entered a kind of divine encounter.

God meets us not just in confession booths and sanctuaries, but in save files and cutscenes.

I think Thurman would understand that. At the very least, I think he’d respect the intentionality of looking.

And so that’s my prayer for this pilgrimage: that we might look, really look—not just at Boston, or Thurman, or even at the communities we serve—but at ourselves. That we might notice where we are both observer and participant in our own story. And that we might, through games and essays and scripture and sacred wandering, encounter something holy.

Grace can live in a paragraph.
Or a player choice.
Or a line of code.

And that is an incredible opportunity.

World 3-24 Complete

Q: Why did Howard Thurman get really good at open-world games?
A: Because he always knew how to see the whole map from within the moment.

I’ll never forget whenever I first stepped into church planting and someone warned me about how competitive churches were with the ‘new church on the block.’

At first, I was stunned. We’re supposed to support one another—how could we mess this up?

Whenever I entered the digital landscape, I discovered that this wasn’t only untrue of churches online, but that there is more reason than ever for the connectional nature of the Church to thrive.

Avoiding the Temptation

When churches step into digital spaces, we often assume the competition is other churches.

The logic goes something like this: if another pastor is pulling higher numbers on Instagram, then they’re “winning” in ways I’m not. If another church has flashier graphics on YouTube, they must be the ones drawing people away from my community. If a missionary streamer has more subs on Twitch, I need to hustle harder to catch up.

But I don’t buy it.

Checkpoint’s competition isn’t Love Thy Nerd.

It’s not First United Methodist down the road.

Those ministries are our co-laborers. When they succeed, the Kingdom of God expands. We are on the same team.

The real competition isn’t each other—it’s the platforms themselves.

A Common Rival

A poignant moment in the recent Fantastic Four movie features the entire population of Earth focused on the global threat of Galactus. They work together in ways thought impossible against an entity larger than any seen before.

The Church has long been focused on neighborhood competitions. But the digital era has introduced a galactic opponent—the superpowers known as algorithms.

Our competition is the infinite scroll of Facebook.
Our competition is the Instagram feed, tuned by engineers to keep you swiping just one more time.
Our competition is TikTok’s “For You” page, pulling you deeper into a rabbit hole.
Our competition is the YouTube subscription list that can fill every waking hour.

That’s who we are up against: billion-dollar algorithms designed to harvest attention.

So when I sit down to make a piece of content, I’m not thinking about how to beat another church in views. I’m thinking about what it will take for someone to pick up their phone and choose Checkpoint’s Discord over the endless scroll.

That’s the reason we post on Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube at all—not to win the platforms, but to invite people away from the noise and into a space that has been intentionally sanctified.

Because here’s the shift we need to make: we aren’t just wanderers online, hoping to bump into someone who needs a word of grace.

That’s good, but it’s not enough.

We also need to build homes—sacred spaces that can stand in direct competition with the algorithm. Places where community isn’t measured by views or clicks, but by trust, belonging, and transformation.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

Checkpoint isn’t the only one called to build these sanctified spaces. If anything, our work has shown just how necessary it is to equip and support others in doing the same.

This is the heartbeat of the Digital Missional Network.

DMN isn’t meant to be another “home base” for Christians online. Instead, it’s a workshop, a greenhouse, a forge—pick your metaphor—for people who are planting their own digital ministries. We need to be in connection, not competition. Those days are gone.

The Digital Missional Network is a place where creators, pastors, and innovators can share best practices, troubleshoot challenges, and remind one another that the work matters.

And just this week, we added a self-promo channel. Why? Because the truth is, we need to support each other. We don’t win this fight by competing with each other’s content; we win it by amplifying each other’s voices so the algorithm has fewer opportunities to drown us out. When you post a new video, drop a sermon, launch a podcast, or start a project—we want to celebrate and share it. That’s how networks grow. That’s how ministries survive in digital-first spaces.

The platforms are not going to give us the tools to thrive. They’re not in the business of equipping churches. They’re in the business of keeping eyes glued to screens for advertisers. Which means we have to equip each other. We have to remind each other that we’re not alone in this fight.

That’s what DMN is for.

If you’ve been following Pixel & Pulpit for a while and you’ve felt the nudge—now’s the moment. Upgrade to a paid subscription and you’ll gain access to the Digital Missional Network. It’s not just another Discord server. It’s a collective of people building the church in the digital wilderness, committed to supporting one another so the Kingdom breaks through in spaces that Silicon Valley didn’t intend.

Need a refresher on what this Missional Network thing is all about?

Pixel & Pulpit

So, how will this Network actually work?

You’ve seen me mention it a few times now…

Read more

a year ago · 7 likes · Nathan Webb

Because our competition isn’t each other.
Our competition is the algorithm.
And the only way to win is together.

World 3-23 Complete

Q: What’s the biggest threat to digital ministry?
A: The “Skip Intro” button.

Every so often, a conversation comes along that reminds me why I started Checkpoint Church in the first place.

Recently, I had the joy of joining The Better Together Podcast with Roz and Callie Picardo to talk about something that’s been at the core of my calling: building a spiritual home for nerds, geeks, and gamers.

Roz and Callie didn’t just toss me a few softball questions about “What’s a digital church?” or “How do you stream a sermon?”—they dug into the heart of why I believe the church has something profound to offer in these digital-first spaces.

We talked about the origin story of Checkpoint Church—how it began as a dream for a Comic-Con-based ministry and became an entirely online, Discord-centered community when the world shut down in 2020.

We explored the three main groups we reach, from long-time Christians who never felt their “nerd” identity belonged in church, to burned-out pastors looking for fellowship, to those carrying deep church wounds from the “Satanic Panic” era who can’t believe a pastor might bless their love for D&D or anime.

But what made this conversation special is that it wasn’t just about what we do—it was about the bigger “why.”

The Myth That Digital Isn’t “Real” Church

One question Roz and Callie asked me (and one I hear often) is: “How can you be the church if you’re not physically together?”

It’s a fair question—especially from folks for whom “church” has always meant pews, potlucks, and passing the plate.

But for our community, the digital space isn’t a substitute. It’s the place we’re most ourselves.

We gather on Discord not because it’s easy or trendy or convenient, but because it’s where digital natives—people who live, work, and form identity online—are already building meaningful relationships.

We live together in an always-on, neo-monastic rhythm. Prayer, conversation, and friendship flow through our server at all hours. It’s Communion—a shared life.

Meeting People Where They Are (and Staying There)

The temptation for many churches is to use digital platforms as bait—to get people to show up on Sunday in a physical building. That’s not our model. We go where people are and stay there.

Jesus did the same. He went to the places where folks had gathered—wells, hillsides, fishing boats—and He met them in their own language.

Roz and Callie got this instantly. They saw that our work isn’t just a “digital version” of traditional church—it’s a reimagining of what it means to be present and incarnational in a culture where the “town square” has moved online.

Why This Conversation Matters Right Now

I’m not naïve. I know there are still plenty in the broader church world who see digital ministry as, at best, a side project and, at worst, a gimmick.

But every time I get the chance to share Checkpoint’s story with people like Roz and Callie, I’m reminded that there are leaders out there who believe that new forms of ministry are necessary for the Kingdom work that the Church is called to.

If you’ve ever wondered whether your passions—whether for video games, anime, comics, or any so-called “niche” interest—can intersect with your faith, I hope this conversation is an encouragement. You’re not alone, and your love for these things is not separate from your spiritual life.

You can listen to the full episode here:

And if you want to see how we live this out day-to-day, you can join us on Discord, catch our nerdy sermons on YouTube, or explore the reflections and resources I share at Pixel & Pulpit.

Because whether online or in person, we are better together.

World 3-22 Complete

Q: How do you make disciples of all podcasts?
A: Go ye therefore to like and subscribe.

Vote, comment, or drop your honest take—no idea is too small.

Ready? Scroll & start tapping. Let’s shape the future of digital ministry together.

Digital Ministry

Nerd Ministry

Hey leaders—thanks for pausing your own projects to fill these polls out. Your answers give me actual data, not guess-work, and that’s gold.

Coming up:

1. Results snapshot. I’ll post a clean, one-pager of the numbers within two weeks so you can see how your peers responded.

2. Resource queue. The top-ranked pain points move to the front of my content calendar—workshops, templates, whatever helps you solve them fast.

Until then, keep serving your communities well—and may your sermons land as clearly as a critical hit, minus the cheese.

Appreciate you.