If there’s a Bible verse for social-media influencers, it probably comes from the Apostle Paul’s epistle to a young evangelist, at 1 Timothy 4:12: “Be thou an example.”
The job of influencer has always had a bit of the missionary about it. By living their best life on Instagram or TikTok, influencers hope to cultivate followers (you could think of these as disciples), who will join them on the path to salvation (or, at the very least, the path to clicking on an affiliate link).
But there are some who seem to take the missionary role more seriously than that. Their profiles might not seem very different from regular influencers—beautiful women posting beautiful selfies showcasing their beautiful lifestyle—but scratch a little deeper and you’ll find that these influencers are animated by sincere religious faith. When you follow them, they’re hoping you’ll also end up following Jesus.
After all, you’d probably run the other way if someone came up to you on the street imploring you to invite Jesus into your heart. When it’s Hailey Bieber, though? That’s another question. Bieber (wife of pop star Justin) offers a less rustic vision of femininity than you might expect from someone devout: her Instagram (with 51 million followers) is a mix of bikini pics, lingerie pics, and promos for her beauty line. But she’s also a vocal evangelical Christian who got married at 21 (albeit not a doctrinaire one: she spoke out against the overturning of Roe v. Wade).
Some have questioned the sincerity of sanctity from someone so often in her scanties. “I’ve met Christian people that are just super judgmental and made me feel like I’m a bad person because I don’t live my life the way they think I should,” Bieber said in a podcast. “And I felt weird about posting certain photos of myself or feeling like, ‘People in the church are gonna see this. Am I doing something wrong? Am I setting a bad example?’ And the reality is no!”
In all likelihood, she’s right. God could have worse representatives than a spokesmodel who extols the virtues of marriage and faith, even if it’s while posing in her underwear. The puritanical can snipe that she’s more Linda Lovelace than Helen Lovejoy, but the reality is that people want to follow Bieber. Why should she hide her light under a bushel?
The job of influencer has always had a bit of the missionary about it. When you follow them, they’re hoping you’ll also end up following Jesus.
For a more conventional version of the Biblical wife, there’s Ballerina Farm. That’s the 8.8-million-follower-strong account of the Juilliard-trained dancer turned homesteader Hannah Neeleman. Neeleman, 33, was recently profiled by The New York Times, which followed her as she competed in the Mrs. World pageant (that’s the respectable married sister to Miss World) just two weeks after giving birth to her eighth child. Neeleman breastfed between rounds of the competition and told her interviewer of her relief that she was no longer in postpartum diapers.
The largeness of Neeleman’s family is possibly not unconnected to the fact that—as well as being a mother, a beauty queen, a homemaker, and a businesswoman—she and her husband are members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and within the Mormon faith, large families are, if not compulsory, certainly not discouraged.
Neeleman acts as a one-woman propaganda campaign for what you might call the trad-wife life. She doesn’t endorse or even seem familiar with the term, simply saying, “I think everyone’s mission is different.” But she certainly makes pre-second-wave gender roles look cute.
In her posts, you can watch her effortlessly wrangle her brood. (Incredulous commenters often ask if the children ever bicker; not on-camera, they don’t.) She tends to her sheep and cows. She beatifically kneads dough to make the bread to feed her family. It’s almost enough to make you imagine you could do it yourself. And if you aren’t quite up to producing the full rowing crew yourself, you can compensate by buying a Ballerina Farm–branded sourdough kit or gingham apron.
The mix of the worldly and the divine might seem jarring. Take, for example, a post Neeleman published after her father’s recent death, thanking “a loving Father in Heaven who gave me to you” in the caption while, in the images, showcasing the funeral florist’s work by posing in a dress made of blooms. This, though, might be her genius as an influencer for God: piety is easier to stomach when it’s packaged in a grid-friendly aesthetic.
God could have worse representatives than a spokesmodel who extols the virtues of marriage and faith, even if it’s while posing in her underwear.
Still, some people bridle at the suspicion of being preached to. The content posted by the 22-year-old model and pregnant mother of two Nara Aziza Smith (wife of Lucky Blue Smith, another model) makes domestic drudgery look as glamorous as a drag performance. One post shows her chopping up crudités in a feathered evening gown. In another, she calmly holds a beautiful toddler on her hip while working at the stove.
It’s a brand that has won her 1.7 million Instagram followers—but also, since her husband’s public endorsement of Mormonism, a great deal of criticism. Despite her “spend the morning with me” videos often featuring Scripture readings, Smith herself has never made an open statement of faith. That hasn’t stopped some from accusing her of peddling “L.D.S. propaganda.”
The accusation is hostile, but understandable when you remember that influencers really are always selling something. If the content partner isn’t tagged, maybe that’s because Smith is running a secret collab with the biggest creator of them all. Inasmuch as the Christian influencer can gather her followers into the light by convincing them to emulate her, she’s following the mission laid down by St. Paul.
But Paul’s epistle also had some less positive words for those attempting salvation via selfies. He commanded that “women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array.” His injunction that “I suffer not a woman to teach” seems like bad news for anyone who would make her own pizza tutorials.
There is hope, though. Paul allows that a Christian woman may adorn herself with “good works.” It’s unlikely that what he had in mind back then was today’s sisterhood of social media. But on Instagram, there’s no way to do good if you don’t look good. In the beginning was the word, but in a 21st-century media environment, the word needs a little help from the well-lit photo.
Sarah Ditum is a London-based journalist and the author of the book Toxic: Women, Fame, and the Tabloid 2000s