The Influencer / Clout Chaser

Here's what most people miss: this isn't about vanity. It's about terror. Your friend has built an entire identity on a platform where approval is quantified in real time. Every post is a test. Every story is a referendum. And the algorithm doesn't care if you're tired or sad or having the worst week of your life — it only cares if you're still producing.

The loneliness is the worst part. They're surrounded by engagement — comments, DMs, reactions — but almost none of it is real. Nobody's asking how they actually are. Nobody's seeing the face they make when the camera flips off. They've become so good at performing that they've forgotten what it feels like to just exist without an audience. And the scary thing? They're not sure anyone would like them if they stopped performing.

A lot of the time, this whole thing started as an escape. Maybe home is hard. Maybe their family doesn't see them. Maybe they feel invisible in real life, so they built a place online where they could control the narrative, curate the image, be someone people wanted to watch. And it worked — until it didn't. Until the thing that was supposed to make them feel seen started making them feel like a product.

What they actually need is to be fully known by someone who doesn't need them to perform. They need to be seen on their worst day, with no filter, no caption, no angle — and still wanted. What they do NOT need is someone telling them to get off their phone or that social media is fake. They already know that. They just don't know how to stop.

There's a woman in Luke 7 who crashes a dinner party. She's not invited. She's not welcome. Everyone in the room knows exactly who she is — her reputation walked in before she did. The religious people are horrified. This is a respectable gathering, and she just made it awkward. But she doesn't care. She's not there for them.

She comes in carrying an alabaster jar of perfume — expensive, the kind you save for something that matters. And she goes straight to Jesus. She's weeping. She's washing His feet with her tears, drying them with her hair, kissing them, pouring out the perfume. It's excessive. It's public. It's the kind of thing that gets recorded and replayed and judged. Everyone is watching.

The host — a Pharisee named Simon — is disgusted. He's thinking: If Jesus were really a prophet, He'd know what kind of woman this is. He'd pull away. He'd protect His image. But Jesus doesn't pull away. He lets her ruin His reputation to restore hers. He lets her be seen — fully seen, in all her desperation and need — and He doesn't flinch.

Then Jesus tells Simon a story about two people who owed money. One owed a lot. One owed a little. Both debts were canceled. Who loves the creditor more? Simon answers correctly: the one who was forgiven more. And Jesus says, You see this woman? You didn't give me water for my feet, but she washed them with her tears. You didn't greet me with a kiss, but she hasn't stopped kissing my feet. You didn't anoint my head with oil, but she poured perfume on my feet.

Then He says the thing that changes everything: Her many sins have been forgiven — as her great love has shown. He turns to her and says, Your sins are forgiven. Your faith has saved you. Go in peace. She came in as the woman everyone knew by her worst moments. She left as the woman Jesus called forgiven.

This is the same Jesus who went to the cross. He didn't protect His image. He didn't manage His reputation. He let Himself be mocked, stripped, and killed in public — so that people like this woman, people like your friend, people like you and me — could be forgiven and known and loved without having to perform for it. He rose from the dead to prove that the approval that actually matters can't be taken away by a bad post or a drop in followers or a day when nobody's watching.