Streaming Killed Attention Spans And Community: Is Faith Next?
(ANALYSIS) Across America, a growing number of people of all ages are communing with the Holy Spirit via their smartphones and laptops. Once the stuff of pews and pulpits, faith now flows through fiber optics. It’s convenient, sure. No parking, no crowds, no early wake-ups.
But is it really church? The answer appears to be no — a resounding no.
This isn’t just about religion. It is, in many ways, about something bigger — a major shift, a slow, creeping erosion of what it means to be present, to experience something together, to commit. Whether it’s faith, film or music, streaming is changing not only how we consume but also what we consume and what we lose in the process.
On the surface, streaming offers everything. Every song, every show, every movie, all at your fingertips. Endless libraries, infinite possibilities. But the paradox of infinite choice is absolute paralysis. The more we can watch, the less we value what we do. There’s no urgency, scarcity or need to sit down at 8 p.m. because the film starts then and won’t wait for you. Streaming has trained people to drift, to skim, to half-watch while scrolling, eating, sitting on the toilet or doing laundry.
You’re not in it. You’re not fully there. And if you’re not fully there, you’re not really experiencing anything at all.
Go back a few decades. Watching a movie meant a trip to the theater or the local video store. Renting a VHS or DVD meant committing to a choice. It meant you had one night, maybe two, before it had to be returned. It was an event. It mattered.
Moreover, there was a time, not that long ago, when a film could bomb in theaters but find a second life on VHS, DVD or late-night TV. Word of mouth could resurrect a hidden gem, turning it into a classic over time. “Blade Runner” flopped in 1982. “The Big Lebowski” wasn’t a hit in 1998. “Donnie Darko” barely made a dent in 2001. But they endured. People found them, passed them along, debated them, rewatched them and gave them a second life.
Streaming doesn’t allow for that kind of slow burn. If something isn’t a hit right away, it disappears beneath the algorithm’s waves, buried under the next batch of content. Netflix won’t hold onto a low-performing film out of love. Disney+ won’t let a show breathe across seasons. There’s no patience, just data. If it doesn’t spike engagement, it vanishes.
Streaming doesn’t cultivate taste. It loops it. It feeds you back what you already like and reinforces your comfort zone. You’re not discovering anything. You’re being mirrored.
The theater. The record store. The bookstore. These weren’t just retail spaces. They were cultural temples. Places to wander, overhear, have passionate debates and even argue. You didn’t go in for a specific title — you went in to find something. Or someone. You left with a recommendation scrawled on a post-it or a conversation still rattling in your head. That’s gone. And it’s not coming back.
But the real danger isn’t what we’ve lost. It’s what we’re becoming.
This brings us back to the streaming of the once-sacred sermon. Yes, the internet opens access. But faith was never meant to be frictionless. Worship isn’t supposed to fit between emails and errands. It demands presence, effort, stillness and sometimes sacrifice.
Church was never just about the message. It was about the room, the pews, the people sitting near and around you, the scent of wood and wax, the shared stillness and the ancient rhythm. You stood, you sat, you knelt. Together. It was physical, embodied and it pulled you out of your own head. You didn’t multitask the Mass. You didn’t half-hear a homily while flipping pancakes. You felt it — chanted the words aloud, tasted the bread, bowed your head. And not out of habit, but out of reverence.
You can’t really phone that in. Sadly, though, more people are.
Of course, some will argue that it’s better than not attending Mass at all — and they’re right, to a point. But we shouldn’t pretend it’s the same thing, and we shouldn’t ignore what we’re losing. Because things are changing (especially after the pandemic) — and not necessarily for the better. The Catholic Church, for example, is now canonizing influencers. Religious services now compete on TikTok. Youth ministries hire social media strategists. Spirituality is being optimized, edited and exported, one post at a time. This isn’t progress.
The communal, the inconvenient, the deeply felt — these things are slipping. Streaming didn’t kill them outright, but it starved them of oxygen and made them feel optional. When everything is always available, nothing feels essential. When nothing requires effort, nothing inspires real devotion. And when nothing is treated as sacred, nothing truly holds. Nothing feels necessary. And when nothing is necessary, what exactly are we left with?
John Mac Ghlionn is a researcher and essayist. He covers psychology and social relations. His writing has appeared in places such as UnHerd, The US Sun and The Spectator World.