Clickbait for the Kingdom: Fishers of Men in a World of Algorithms

There’s something wearying about the flood of sensational thumbnails that scream, “The Biggest Mistake Christians Make,” “Why You’re Not Really Saved,” or “This One Thing Every Catholic Gets Wrong.” It’s noise that often numbs the soul rather than nourishes it.

But maybe the reason it irritates us is because it tempts something real. We want to click. We want the promise of meaning. And that desire—if purified—might actually be holy.

The Fisherman’s Paradox

Jesus called fishermen, not philosophers, to proclaim His Gospel. “Follow me,” He said, “and I will make you fishers of men” (Matthew 4:19). Every fisherman knows that catching requires bait—something that attracts, that glints in the water just long enough to draw the hungry near. The difference between manipulation and mission lies not in the hook, but in the heart behind it.

Clickbait tries to capture attention for self-gain—views, revenue, vanity metrics that evaporate like morning mist. Evangelical “bait,” at its best, seeks to capture hearts for salvation. One exploits hunger; the other satisfies it.

The Universal Call to Evangelize

The Catechism reminds us that evangelization isn’t optional—it’s the very heartbeat of Christian identity: “It is the whole Church that receives the mission to evangelize, and the work of each individual member is important for the whole” (CCC 863). Every baptized Christian is called to fish for souls—not just clergy, but the mother scrolling through Instagram at nap time, the college student sharing reels between classes, the professional crafting LinkedIn posts.

The question isn’t whether we’re called to evangelize in digital spaces. The question is whether we’re willing to learn the language of the culture we’re called to reach.

Baptizing the Algorithm

The Church has always baptized cultural tools. We took pagan temples and made them basilicas. We seized Gutenberg’s printing press to spread Scripture. We filled concert halls with sacred music and galleries with Madonnas. Now we fill podcast feeds with homilies and YouTube channels with apologetics.

Algorithms are just the new Galilee—the place where the crowds gather, where attention flows like schools of fish in digital waters. To refuse to fish there isn’t faithfulness; it’s abdication.

The apostles didn’t wait for people to wander into quiet rooms of contemplation. Peter preached to thousands in the streets at Pentecost. Paul argued in the Areopagus, adapting his message to philosophical Greeks. They met people where they were, spoke in terms they understood, and used every available means to plant the seed of the Gospel.

As St. Paul himself wrote: “For though I am free from all, I have made myself a servant to all, that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews... I have become all things to all people, that by all means I might save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, that I may share with them in its blessings” (1 Corinthians 9:19-23).

The Body of Christ vs. The Algorithm

But here’s where it gets interesting: the Body of Christ is a superior body to any algorithm.

Algorithms are sophisticated—predictive, adaptive, constantly learning from our behavior. But they’re also mechanical, responsive only to engagement metrics, blind to the difference between virtue and vice. An algorithm doesn’t care if you’re watching a homily or hate-scrolling through outrage bait; it only cares that you’re watching.

The Body of Christ, however, is an organic unity—mystically connected, spiritually bonded, animated by the Holy Spirit rather than code. We are “members one of another” (Romans 12:5), each click and share and comment rippling through an invisible network more profound than any server farm. And we have been given authority over all things created—including algorithms.

This authority manifests both individually and collectively:

Individually, through the spiritual discipline of custody of the eyes. Every unfollow is an act of spiritual warfare. Every decision to close an app when it’s feeding anxiety rather than truth is a small victory for the Kingdom. When we refuse to let the algorithm dictate what we consume, we’re exercising dominion over the digital garden we inhabit.

Collectively, through intentional collaboration and mutual support. When Catholics share each other’s content, comment thoughtfully, and engage genuinely with edifying posts, we’re not just “supporting creators”—we’re training the algorithm to recognize and amplify truth. We’re literally reprogramming the digital ecosystem through coordinated virtue.

Imagine if the Body of Christ moved with the same coordinated intentionality online as we do in liturgy. If we practiced the same discipline in our feeds as we do in our fasts. If we showed up for each other’s work the way we show up for each other’s weddings and baptisms.

The algorithm would learn. It would begin to surface beauty over banality, substance over sensation, edification over exploitation. Not because Silicon Valley had a conversion experience, but because the people of God decided to exercise their baptismal authority in digital space.

This is why collaboration among Catholic creators isn’t just good strategy—it’s ecclesiology in action. When we share each other’s work, cross-promote, appear in each other’s content, we’re embodying the truth that “we, though many, are one body in Christ.” We’re demonstrating that the Church isn’t a collection of competing brands, but a communion of saints laboring toward a common mission.

The algorithm sees this unity and amplifies it. Your thoughtful comment on another creator’s post doesn’t just encourage them—it signals to the system that this content matters, creating a rising tide that lifts all boats.

The Good Bait vs. The Bad

So what makes bait redemptive rather than manipulative?

Bad bait promises what it can’t deliver. It teases wisdom but delivers outrage. It hints at transformation but offers only performance. Bad bait trades in anxiety, comparison, and fear—the emotional equivalent of empty calories.

Good bait promises what it genuinely offers. It creates curiosity that leads to truth. It poses questions that open into mystery. It uses titles that intrigue without deceiving, images that attract without manipulating. Good bait knows that the Gospel itself is inherently interesting—if we can just get past the numbing familiarity that makes people scroll past another beige Bible verse graphic.

The difference is integrity. Does the content deliver on the promise? Does it feed the hunger it awakens?

The Art of the Sacred Hook

If we’re serious about evangelization in the digital age, we need to recover the art of the hook without shame:

Craft titles that stir desire for truth rather than exploit anxiety. “Why You’re Failing as a Christian” is fear-bait. “The One Practice That Changed My Prayer Life” is an invitation.

Use images that dignify rather than sensationalize. A thoughtful portrait, a beautiful icon, a striking piece of sacred art—these catch the eye without cheapening the message.

Make curiosity serve contemplation. The hook should lead somewhere deeper. A compelling title should open into an essay that rewards attention. The bait isn’t the point—it’s the means to an encounter with Christ.

Remember that attention is a gift, not a conquest. When someone stops scrolling and clicks, they’re offering you their scarcest resource: focus in an age of distraction. Honor that gift.

Fishing in Good Faith

St. Francis de Sales, that gentle doctor of charity and evangelization, once said: “A spoonful of honey attracts more flies than a whole barrel of vinegar.” He understood that the Gospel must be presented attractively—not watered down, but offered with the sweetness that befits good news. The “hook” isn’t manipulation if what follows is genuine nourishment.

The apostles preached to crowds by catching their ear with bold proclamations and signs that made people stop and wonder. We now preach to newsfeeds by catching the scroll with words and images that interrupt the endless stream of content.

This isn’t a compromise with worldliness. It’s contextualization—the same instinct that led Paul to quote pagan poets in Athens, that led missionaries to translate “Logos” into new languages, that led medieval monks to illuminate manuscripts so beautiful that even illiterate peasants could sense the glory of God.

Every age requires the Gospel to be proclaimed in the vernacular. Ours happens to be visual, brief, and algorithm-mediated. We can lament that—or we can learn to speak it fluently.

The Click That Saves

Because in the end, evangelization isn’t about clicks; it’s about conversion. But conversion often begins with curiosity. With a moment of attention. With a hook that glints in the water and makes someone hungry for something they didn’t know they needed.

Maybe “clickbait” was always meant to be literal: a way to click into the good news. A way to bait the hook with something true and beautiful, cast it into the digital deep, and trust that the Holy Spirit can work even through an algorithm.

If we’re fishers of men, we shouldn’t be ashamed of the bait—only of using bait that feeds ego instead of feeding souls. The question isn’t whether to use attention-grabbing techniques. The question is what we’re grabbing attention for.

Are we fishing for ourselves, or for the Kingdom?

The nets are ready. The catch is waiting. And somewhere in the endless scroll, a soul is hungry for something real.

Time to bait the hook—together.