By Mike Bain.
Marketing didn’t begin in the 20th century. Its roots go right back to a serpent in a garden and a woman who was convinced she needed something she didn’t have. The first influencer wasn’t on TikTok — it was Satan, selling a lie with perfect packaging. Eve bought it. Adam followed. And humanity has been buying the same pitch ever since.
Fast forward to today and nothing has changed except the production quality. We’ve gone from whispered temptation to full scale marketing machines. Social media influencers, product placement, curated lifestyles — all of it built on the same ancient hook: desire.
Desire to have what others have.
Desire to be who others are.
Desire to be liked.
New Zealand’s most successful influencer wasn’t a YouTuber — it was the Briscoes Lady. Since 1995 she’s been the smiling face convincing Kiwis they need a sale item they didn’t even know existed. She became so trusted that people voted her “most trusted person” in the country. That’s the power of influence. That’s the power of desire.
And that same desire sits at the heart of two institutions that should know better: Parliament and the Church.
For centuries, these two were intertwined. Today they’re separate, but both are still run by people who crave the same thing Eve did — approval. Popularity. Acceptance.
Look at Parliament. Politicians talk about service, and many genuinely mean it. But underneath the speeches and the slogans sits a quieter truth: popularity matters. Polls matter. Headlines matter. You can hear it in the tone of the opposition and see it in the media frenzy every time a poll dips.
But here’s the question almost no one asks:
“Can the Prime Minister actually do the job?”
Not “Is he popular?”
Not “Is he trending?”
Just — “Is he capable?”
If we judged leadership in the workplace the way we judge it in politics, no one would survive a week. Popularity swings with the weather. Competence doesn’t.
And that brings me to the Church.
Let’s be honest: the Church has never been the world’s favourite institution. It wasn’t designed to be. But over the last 50 years, something shifted. Instead of shaping culture, the Church started chasing it. Instead of preaching repentance, it preached relevance. Instead of calling people to holiness, it called them to happiness.
And the result?
Influence evaporated.
Islam grew.
Secularism surged.
And the Church — the very people entrusted with the gospel — traded truth for applause.
Like Eve, we listened to what our itching ears wanted to hear. Like Adam, we wanted acceptance more than obedience. And now, in 2026, we have a Church that looks more like a theatre than a sanctuary. Lights, smoke, skinny jeans, and sermons so watered down you could baptise a mouse in them.
Replacement theology.
Blind eyes to sin.
A gospel trimmed to fit the culture.
And we wonder why no one takes us seriously.
The Church today is the servant in Jesus’ parable who buried his talent. Entrusted with the truth, we hid it under the soil of popularity. We wanted more — more numbers, more likes, more relevance — and ended up with less.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth:
Popularity is lonely. Unpopularity is lonely. But faithfulness is never lonely — because Christ stands with the faithful.
If the Church wants influence again, it won’t come through marketing tricks or cultural mimicry. It won’t come through being “relatable.” It won’t come through chasing the world’s approval.
It will come the same way it always has:
through truth, sacrifice, holiness, and courage.
Politicians need to remember that leadership is service, not polling.
The Church needs to remember that preaching is proclamation, not performance.
We don’t need influencers like the Briscoes Lady.
We don’t need Eve.
We certainly don’t need Satan.
We need foundations.
We need conviction.
We need the Word of God — not skimmed, not sampled, but studied, believed, and obeyed.
So here’s my message to both Parliament and the Church:
Your job is not to be liked by the world.
Your job is to be faithful to Christ.
Everything else is just marketing.