6 Insidious Lies That Keep Christian Writers From Writing

When fear dresses up as spiritual wisdom

There's a particular joy that only writers understand.

When you find exactly the right word. When a sentence clicks into place with that satisfying snap. When an idea that's been swirling finally takes shape on the page.

Maybe you felt it this morning, or last week, or you're hoping to feel it again soon.

That moment when writing feels less like work and more like discovery. When time disappears and you look up, surprised by what's appeared on the screen.

But somewhere between that first spark and actually sharing your work, sometimes, something shifts. The joy starts leaking out, replaced by an exhausting mental loop:

• "Is this spiritual enough?"

• "Should I add a Bible verse?"

• "What if people think I'm not qualified?"

• "Am I writing this for the right reasons?"

• "Maybe I should pray about it more..."

• "Would a real Christian writer say this?"

By the time you finally hit publish—if you hit publish—you're drained. What started as creative joy has morphed into a spiritual performance evaluation you're never quite sure you've passed.

I know those voices well, and here’s what I can say from personal experience: those voices are almost certainly not from God. They’re not even our own thoughts, really.

They're lies—sneaky, persistent lies that have wormed their way into how Christian writers think about their work.

Today, we're going to drag six of these lies into the light. Because once you see them clearly, they lose their power.

And maybe, through this process, you can find your way back to that simple joy of creating with the Creator who lives in you.

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Lie #1 "If my numbers are low, maybe God isn't blessing this"

This lie might sneak up on you after publishing what you thought was your best work. You crafted every sentence, prayed over it, felt that sense of "yes, this is what I'm supposed to share."

Then... crickets. Three likes. One comment (from your mom). Meanwhile, someone else's throwaway post about their morning latte gets a ton of engagement.

The doubt creeps in quietly: "Maybe I misheard God. Maybe He's not blessing this work. Maybe this is a sign I should stop."

Where This Comes From

We live in a culture that equates visible success with God's favor. The prosperity gospel may have taught us that faith yields material blessings, but we've created our own digital version: if God approves, the metrics will show it.

It doesn't help that we see other Christian writers celebrating viral posts with "God is so good!" (And He is—but is He less good when your post gets twelve views?)

We've unconsciously adopted the world's scorecard and baptized it.

The Truth

Scripture tells a different story. Jeremiah proclaimed God's word for decades with almost no positive response. Noah preached for 120 years and saved only his family.

Isaiah 55:11 says: "So is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it."

Notice it doesn't say "It will go viral" or "It will get engagement." God measures impact differently than algorithms do.

You may never know it, but in sharing what God has done for you, think of that one person who needed your words. Or the reader who screenshots your post to return to during a dark season. Or the seed planted that won't sprout for years.

Heaven's metrics account for all of this.

Finding Freedom

If low numbers have made you question God's blessing, consider this: What if you measured success by obedience instead of outcomes? What if the act of faithfully showing up to write is the victory?

This week, before checking your stats, take a moment to thank God for the privilege of writing, regardless of reach. Remember that faithfulness, not followers, is the metric that matters in the Kingdom.

Your words matter because God gave them to you to share—not because of how many people see them.

Lie #2: "I should only write explicitly Christian content to honor God"

If you've ever felt a twinge of guilt about your "non-spiritual" writing, you'll recognize this voice.

You love writing about sustainable living. Or photography. Or personal finance. The words flow naturally, you're genuinely helping people, but then comes that familiar question: "Shouldn't I be writing about Jesus instead?"

So you try to bridge the gap. Your posts about composting somehow need to mention spiritual growth. Your photography tutorials search for creation metaphors. Your budgeting advice reaches for stewardship parables.

The connections feel forced. The writing loses its natural rhythm. And somewhere deep down, you wonder if God's disappointed that you're so passionate about "secular" topics.

Where This Comes From

Many of us have absorbed a subtle message that divides life into sacred and secular categories. Real ministry—preaching, teaching Bible studies, missionary work—sits in the sacred column. Everything else? Well, it's fine, but it's not quite as valuable to the Kingdom.

When you genuinely want to honor God with your gifts, this division creates an almost impossible tension.

The Truth

Consider this: Jesus spent thirty years crafting tables and chairs before three years of public ministry. Paul made tents throughout his apostolic work—and never apologized for it. Daniel mastered Babylonian literature and government administration.

Colossians 3:23-24 reminds us: "Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters... It is the Lord Christ you are serving."

Notice it says "whatever you do." Your excellence in any field honors God. Your integrity in business writing is deeply spiritual. Your creativity in lifestyle blogging reflects the Creator Himself. Christ is already present in your faithful work—you don't have to force Him into every paragraph.

Now, don’t hear what I’m not saying. This doesn’t mean that everything a Christian writes about is automatically made holy just because that writer is a Christian.

The key here, as with all aspects of our lives as followers of Christ, is surrender. Full submission to God’s leading, and an earnest desire to let Him form our focus and attention.

In other words, spend time with Him. Behold Him.

If there’s something that you think you shouldn’t write about, or some unsurrendered interest that you sense God might lead you away from if He were in charge, then pay attention to that. Give it to Him.

On the other hand, don’t assume that every subject is off limits just because it doesn’t have a specific spiritual aura around it.

Either way, don’t stress about figuring it out yourself.

Give it to God, and trust Him fully. He will lead.

Finding Freedom

If this resonates, try something this week: Write one post about your topic without adding any spiritual application. Simply do excellent work. Let your craft itself be an offering.

You might discover that writing from rest—without the pressure to spiritualize—actually allows your faith to shine through more naturally. And that God is just as honored by your excellent article on lens selection as He would be by a devotional.

Lie #3: "Writers with bigger platforms must be more spiritually mature than me"

You might not even realize you believe this one until you're scrolling past another Christian writer's book announcement. Fifty thousand subscribers. Publishing deal. Speaking engagements.

A quiet thought surfaces: "They must really have their spiritual life together. God must trust them more than He trusts me."

You look at your small readership and wonder what you're doing wrong spiritually. Maybe if you prayed more, fasted more, had more faith... maybe then God would expand your reach too.

Where This Comes From

It's easy to confuse visibility with spiritual authority. Our Christian culture often platforms those with the biggest followings, reinforcing the idea that influence equals spiritual maturity.

Social media makes it worse—we see the numbers but not the journey. We see the platform but not the pain. We assume that outward success reflects inward spiritual reality.

The Truth

Platform size reflects many factors: timing, niche, algorithm changes, marketing budget, connections, writing style, topic choice.

What it doesn't reflect is the depth of someone's walk with God.

Jesus chose twelve disciples, not twelve thousand. He often spoke of the Kingdom's hidden nature: "The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed" (Matthew 13:31). "The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed" (Luke 17:20).

Consider Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 1:26-27: "Brothers and sisters, think of what you were when you were called. Not many of you were wise by human standards; not many were influential; not many were of noble birth. But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong."

God often works through the small, hidden, and seemingly insignificant. Your spiritual maturity isn't measured by your subscriber count.

Finding Freedom

What if platform size is simply about assignment, not assessment? Some are called to shepherd thousands; others to deeply impact dozens. Neither is more spiritual—just different.

This week, when you see a bigger platform, try replacing comparison with curiosity: "Lord, what are You doing through them?" Then turn it around: "What are You doing through me that only I can do?"

Ultimately, remember that validation doesn’t come from externals. You are a child of God.

Think about that.

It’s not just church language.

You have been adopted by the Creator of the universe. The infinite Being looked at you and chose you as His own, moved heaven and Earth to bring you into His family.

And now, you have the honor of partnering with Him in bringing that good news to others.

Your small corner of the internet might be exactly the size God intends. Those ten readers might be the very ones who need exactly what you're offering. Spiritual maturity is measured by faithfulness, not followers.

Lie #4: "I can't write about faith while I'm struggling"

The draft sits open on your screen. You were going to write about trusting God, but this morning you yelled at your kids. You planned to share about peace, but lately your closest companion has been anxiety. And a post about God's faithfulness feels hollow when you're drowning in doubt.

So you water it down. Past tense it. Add a tidy resolution. Or maybe you delete it entirely and write something safer instead.

The fear whispers from two directions: "Who are you to write about faith when yours is so fragile?" and "What will people think if they know you're this much of a mess?"

Where This Comes From

We've absorbed a toxic idea that spiritual authority requires spiritual perfection. That we should write from the mountaintop, not the valley. That our struggles disqualify us rather than equip us.

The pressure intensifies online, where your words live forever and strangers judge your entire faith journey based on one vulnerable post. We imagine readers need us to be spiritual superheroes, further along, more stable, more victorious than they are.

Maybe it's the highlight-reel nature of social media. Maybe it's fear of being seen as a "stumbling block." Or maybe it's that deep worry that if people knew how often we wrestle, they'd click unsubscribe.

The Truth

Have you read the Psalms lately? David wrote some of his most powerful words from the cave, on the run, in the depths of depression. "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Psalm 22:1).

Not exactly victory-lap material.

Paul—the apostle Paul—wrote, "Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me" (2 Corinthians 12:8). Present tense struggle. Current thorn. He didn't pretend it was gone when it wasn't.

Then he said this: "Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me... For when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Corinthians 12:9-10).

Your struggles aren't disqualifying you. They're the very stage where God's strength performs.

The most powerful writing often comes not from having it all together, but from holding onto God when everything's falling apart. Your readers don't need your perfection—they need your honesty about the God who meets you in imperfection.

Finding Freedom

What if your struggle is your qualification, not your disqualification? People drowning in doubt don't need to hear from someone who's never questioned. They need someone who gets it, who's learning trust is a choice we make while our hands still shake.

This doesn't mean oversharing or turning your blog into therapy. But it might mean:

• Writing "I'm learning" instead of "I've learned"

• Sharing "This is hard for me too" alongside truth

• Being honest that faith and struggle coexist

• Letting readers see you're human, not superhuman

This week, if you've been holding back because you're struggling, try writing something real. Maybe start with: "I'm writing about hope today not because I'm overflowing with it, but because I desperately need to remember it's true."

This doesn’t mean that we need to wallow in negativity for the sake of a message.

Even in the valley, we look toward heaven. And we can bring our readers’ eyes there, too—especially if they’re in a valley where all they see is darkness.

Because if there is one thing readers value today, in an era of artificial intelligence and curated content, it’s authenticity.

Your in-process faith might be exactly what someone needs to keep going. Your weakness might be where God's power shines brightest.

Speaking of authenticity…

Lie #5: "I have to choose between digital excellence and being authentic"

You know what works online. Short paragraphs. Punchy headlines. Bullet points for skimmers. Keywords for Google. You've learned the rules: hook them in three seconds, promise transformation, optimize everything.

So you take your heartfelt message and start reformatting. That thoughtful paragraph gets chopped into bite-sized pieces. Your nuanced title becomes "5 Ways to Transform Your Faith Today!" You add power words, emotional triggers, urgency.

By the time you hit publish, something feels... off. The message is still true, probably, but it feels like you've dressed it up in clothes that don't quite fit.

Like you've traded your authentic voice for algorithmic approval.

Where This Comes From

This tension is real. We want to reach people where they are—scrolling quickly, skimming content, searching Google. We know that great truth poorly presented might never get read.

But we've also seen how these tactics can turn manipulative. How "optimization" can slide into clickbait. How formatting for engagement can strip away depth and nuance. We wonder: Is adapting to digital culture compromising our message?

The Truth

Here's what we often miss: Paul became "all things to all people" to save some (1 Corinthians 9:22). He spoke differently in the marketplace than in the synagogue. He used Greek rhetoric with Greeks, Jewish argumentation with Jews. Was he being inauthentic? No—he was being strategic in service of the gospel.

Digital formatting isn't inherently deceptive any more than translating the Bible into English compromises its truth. These are simply the communication norms of our time. The question isn't whether to use them, but how to use them with integrity.

Jesus told parables—stories designed to be memorable, shareable, engaging. If He were teaching today, might He use the tools of our time?

Finding Freedom

What if you viewed digital best practices as acts of hospitality? Short paragraphs help tired eyes read on phones. Clear headlines help busy people find what they need. Good SEO helps seekers discover truth.

The key is this: Let the tools serve your message, not master it. Use engaging headlines that deliver on their promises. Format for readability without sacrificing depth. Optimize for Google while writing for humans.

This week, try writing your authentic message first. Then ask: "How can I package this gift in a way that helps people receive it?" Not manipulation—invitation. Not compromise—translation.

Your voice doesn't have to disappear in the digital age. It just needs to learn the language.

Lie #6: "Maybe I shouldn't care this much about improving my craft"

It starts innocently. You buy another writing book. Sign up for that course. Spend hours studying story structure, perfecting your metaphors, analyzing what makes great writing work.

But then the guilt creeps in. Should you be this invested in getting better? This excited about nailing the perfect opening line? Shouldn't you care more about the message than the medium?

You watch other Christian writers seem content with simple, straightforward posts while you're obsessing over rhythm and resonance. That familiar worry surfaces: "Maybe this focus on craft is just pride. Maybe I should care less about the writing and more about the ministry."

Where This Comes From

We've inherited a strange form of Christian anti-intellectualism that extends to creativity. As if God is more honored by mediocrity offered with good intentions than by excellence pursued with passion.

There's also fear lurking here—fear that if we admit we want to be really good at this, we're making it about us.

That caring about craft means caring less about Christ.

The Truth

Bezalel was filled with the Spirit of God specifically for artistic craftsmanship (Exodus 31:1-5). God gave him divine ability in "all kinds of crafts" to create beauty for the tabernacle. The Spirit's filling didn't make him care less about his craft—it made him more skillful.

Consider Psalm 45:1: "My tongue is the pen of a skillful writer." The psalmist wasn't apologizing for his skill—he was dedicating it.

God is the ultimate craftsman. He didn't slap creation together haphazardly. "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands" (Psalm 19:1). Excellence reflects His nature.

Your desire to improve, to find the perfect word, to structure truth beautifully—this can be worship.

Finding Freedom

What if your passion for craft is actually a spiritual gift? What if God delights in your delight over a well-turned phrase? What if improving your writing is actually good stewardship of what He's given you?

This week, embrace one aspect of craft you've felt guilty about caring about. Study it without apology. Practice it with joy. Let yourself geek out over technique, knowing that every skill you develop is another tool for serving truth beautifully.

You're allowed to care about being excellent. In fact, it might be one of the ways you bear God's image. Create like He does—with intention, with skill, with joy in the craft itself.

Bonus: Lie #7: "Real writers don't need community—they create alone"

The writing life can be lonely. You sit at your desk, just you and the blank page, wrestling words into existence. And somewhere along the way, you started believing this isolation was necessary. Even noble.

You see other writers joining groups, asking for feedback, celebrating wins together, and you think: "Real writers don't need hand-holding. Strong writers figure it out themselves."

So you stay quiet about your struggles. You don't ask for help when you're stuck. You celebrate small victories alone and nurse rejections in private. Because needing others feels like weakness, and weakness feels like proof you're not a "real" writer.

Where This Comes From

We've romanticized the lone genius, typing away in isolation, channeling pure inspiration without outside influence. Add to that our Christian culture's emphasis on individual faith ("just me and Jesus"), and we create a perfect storm of isolation.

There's also pride here—the fear that asking for help reveals our inadequacy. That collaboration somehow diminishes our originality. That needing encouragement means we lack sufficient faith.

The Truth

Even God said it wasn't good for humans to be alone (Genesis 2:18). Jesus sent disciples out in pairs, not solo. Paul traveled with teams, collaborated with co-writers, and constantly sought the prayers and encouragement of other believers.

Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 reminds us: "Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up."

The biblical model is always community. The body of Christ has many parts, and we need each other—even in our writing. Especially in our writing.

Finding Freedom

What if needing others isn't weakness but wisdom? What if the writers who thrive are those who've learned to give and receive support?

This week, take one small step toward community:

• Share a writing struggle with one trusted friend

• Join a writers' group (online or local)

• Ask for feedback on something you've written

• Celebrate someone else's writing win

• Offer encouragement to another struggling writer

You weren't meant to write alone. Your voice becomes stronger in community, not weaker. And the writing life is far more joyful when shared.

The Transformation

We've walked through six lies, and maybe you recognized yourself in some of them. Maybe all of them. That's okay—most of us have believed these lies so long we couldn't see them anymore. They became the water we swim in, the air we breathe.

But you see them now.

The Weight We've Been Carrying

These lies don't work alone. They team up, creating an exhausting web of self-doubt and second-guessing. The fear that you're not spiritual enough combines with the pressure to perform digitally. The comparison trap tangles with the authenticity struggle. Before you know it, writing—that thing that once brought joy—becomes a source of constant anxiety.

No wonder so many Christian writers burn out. No wonder the blank page feels heavier than it should. We're not just trying to write; we're trying to navigate an impossible maze of conflicting expectations.

The Truth That Changes Everything

But what if you could write differently? What if every time you sat down to create, you remembered:

• You're God's child first, who happens to write

• Your assignment isn't tied to your metrics

• Excellence and authenticity can grow together

• Your struggles qualify rather than disqualify you

• Christ in you is enough—has always been enough

This isn't about trying harder or believing better.

It's about letting go of lies that were never true to begin with.

Your Next Step

Which lie has had the strongest hold on you? Don't overthink it—you probably knew immediately when you read it. That's where to start.

The template I mentioned before could be helpful here. :)

This week, take one small action to break its power:

• Write that "secular" post without apology

• Thank God for your work before checking stats

• Celebrate someone with a bigger platform

• Share something while you're still in process

• Polish your work without guilt

• Study craft with joy

• Let people see your real struggle

The Return to Joy

Writing doesn't have to be an exhausting performance. It can be what it was meant to be: one of the many ways Christ's life flows through you. Natural as breathing. Free as grace.

The page is waiting. But this time, you can approach it differently. Not as a test to pass or a standard to meet, but as a space where you get to create with the Creator who lives in you.

These lies, at least, have been exposed.

Now go write in freedom.

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