Is the Church Afraid of Digital Incarnation?

How Gatekeeping Undermines Ministry in the Digital Age

Every time I write something about digital ministry, the same tired critique rears its head: “That’s great, but it’s not incarnational.”

It’s not real ministry. It’s not tangible. It’s not enough.

I get it. The Church loves gatekeeping, doesn’t it? The Church has been moving the goalposts on what “counts” for centuries.

Let’s take the Bible, for example.

At different points in history, people claimed you couldn’t understand scripture unless you were ordained, or unless you read it in Latin, or—if you’re a real purist—in the original Greek and Hebrew. Even today, some of these mindsets exist—I just saw an inane post about the purity of the KJV on my TikTok feed yesterday.

It took the Reformation—and the radical idea of translating the Bible into vernacular languages—to break down that barrier. The printing press empowered this shift, just as digital tools empower connection today.

And now, here we are, with billions of people encountering the Word in their native languages daily.

This tension between gatekeeping and accessibility isn’t about theology but control. Just as the Reformation shattered the monopoly on scripture, digital ministry resists the idea that physical presence is the only way to experience the divine.

The gatekeepers keep moving the goalposts, but reality doesn’t care. Reality keeps being real.

The Incarnation You Don’t See

I experience incarnational reality in digital spaces every day.
Period. End of story.

When someone tells me my ministry isn’t incarnational, they’re not just dismissing my theology—they’re dismissing my experience.

I am more myself online than I could ever be in person, not because of anxiety (though, sure, that’s part of it), but because digital spaces are where I’m most alive.

It’s where I connect, where I build relationships, and where I find and foster community.

If digital spaces aren’t real, then what about the people I’ve met there?

What about the Discord conversations that dive deeper than any Sunday coffee hour ever could?

What about the Twitch chat where someone finally feels safe enough to ask, “What’s grace, anyway?”

Are these not incarnational moments?

Do they somehow matter less because they happened on a screen?

The incarnation is not bound by geography or format. The incarnation is wherever God shows up (say, perhaps, where two or three are gathered?)—and I promise you, God is showing up online.

This isn’t about abandoning the traditional Church. It’s about recognizing that the Body of Christ is bigger than four walls. Digital ministry doesn’t compete with physical ministry—it expands it. It creates new ways to reach people who might never step into a sanctuary but are longing for a place to belong.

What If the Goalposts Are the Problem?

The criticism of digital ministry as “not incarnational” feels suspiciously like another form of gatekeeping—another way to say, “This doesn’t count.” But who gets to decide?

For centuries, the Church has redefined what it means to be incarnational. It used to mean gathering in homes and breaking bread together. Then, it meant cathedrals. Then pulpits. Now, for some, it means Wi-Fi, phones, and webcams.

If the instances of incarnation can and have evolved, why are we so afraid to acknowledge it? Are we really so afraid of something simply because we haven’t experienced it ourselves?

Jesus didn’t set up shop in the temple and wait for people to arrive. He met them where they were—at wells, fishing boats, and roadsides. If Jesus were here today, wouldn’t he show up in chat?

Some argue, “What would you have done before technology?” Honestly? I’d probably have been in a basement playing D&D, dreaming up a world that felt more real than my nine-to-five. Or maybe I’d have been carving out little communities of nerds wherever I could find them.

Digital tools didn’t create this desire for connection—they revealed it. And empowered it. They gave it a megaphone and a toolkit.

My ministry field doesn’t exist because of the internet.

It exists because people have always needed spaces where they can be seen and known.

Advocating for the Overlooked

I’m not asking you to become a digital native or to become an advocate with me.

But I am asking you to recognize that these spaces are lifelines for real, embodied people.

I’m asking you to stop denying the experience of people like me and those I serve.

If you earnestly want to understand, then go and watch The Remarkable Life of Ibelin documentary on Netflix and then come back to me. I’m dead serious. If it doesn’t change your mind, then I can’t either.

This work isn’t just for me. It’s for a people group—a digital diaspora—who feel more alive in their Twitch chat than in their pew. Who find sacredness in emojis and healing in a Discord voice call. It’s not about replacing the old; it’s about making space for the new.

This is inclusive theology for the digital age.

It’s about saying, “Your experience is valid. Your faith matters. You belong.”

The incarnation isn’t about where ministry happens—it’s about how it happens. It’s about showing up, being present, and making the love of Christ tangible in whatever space we find ourselves. And if that space is digital? Then so be it. The Spirit is moving, and I’ll be there.

World 2-14 Complete

Q: Why is incarnation like good Wi-Fi?
A: It connects you directly to the source.