They’re coming to Spokane with a lineup that reads like a Christian celebrity tour: Tim Tebow, John C. Maxwell, Eric Thomas, Kayleigh McEnany, Mark Few, and a few others.

The pitch is clear: high-powered names, an inspirational atmosphere, and promises of transformation—all in the name of God. The ticket price? Anywhere from $100 to $500, depending on how close you want to sit to the action.

And yet, despite the polished production and curated sermons, I can’t help but see something deeply familiar—eerily corporate, almost eerily secular in form, if not in language.

Let me say first: I have no problem with inspiration. I have no problem with belief, with God, or with people finding fuel for their lives. But what I do question—what I must question—is the machinery behind the messaging. Because this is no longer about faith. This is about product. This is about stage lights, ticketing systems, and speaking fees. This is about the industrialization of encouragement.

Faith, Framed for Profit

The central irony of events like Life Surge is this: they operate outside the traditional church model under the guise of being somehow more real—more financially transparent, more daring, more entrepreneurial—while simultaneously selling the exact same message as a Sunday morning sermon: God can do anything through you. The twist? You have to pay to hear it.

This isn’t revival. It’s a keynote.

It’s Tony Robbins in a worship playlist.

The formula is predictable. A speaker walks out. They tell their story of struggle. They quote Scripture. They cry, maybe. They tell you you’re powerful. Then they pivot to their product—whether it’s a book, a program, a course, or even a mindset. And we cheer. We buy. We believe again.

But let’s pause.

If the core message is that with God, all things are possible, why must that possibility cost $399?

The Currency of Celebrity

Let’s look deeper.

The reason Tim Tebow is on that stage is not because he is a more faithful man than your neighbor. It’s not because he unlocked some divine economic code. It’s because he was once famous for throwing a football on national television. And because of that, we now allow him to charge money to talk about God. If Tebow had been a moderately successful insurance agent, no one would be paying to hear him speak. Not because his ideas wouldn’t be valuable, but because the market only listens to the already-elevated. We are hypnotized by fame and blind to its scaffolding.

This is the inconvenient truth about motivational Christianity: it often uses the appearance of godly insight to peddle the fruit of worldly validation. The crowd is not there for theology. The crowd is there for access. We don’t want to know how to suffer with dignity—we want to know how to be rich and admired like the people we’re listening to.

They talk about overcoming adversity, but they overcame it through being known. They sell success stories, but their success is that they became the story.

The Illusion of Replicability

Events like this suggest that anyone in the crowd can become them—wealthy, influential, aligned with God and destiny—if they just believe hard enough. But that’s the lie: you can’t replicate fame. You can’t replicate a viral video, a Heisman trophy, a headline career in politics, or a bestselling book. Those moments are cultural anomalies, not frameworks. And yet these events suggest that with the right mindset and enough faith, you too can monetize your journey.

It’s a cruel optimism.

Most people will never be famous. Most people will not become traveling speakers or bestselling authors or national figures. And not because they aren’t talented or spiritual or worthy—but because the game is rigged in favor of those already in the stadium.

The attendees, however, aren’t told that. They are told to dream bigger. To believe more. To buy the VIP pass.

When Ministry Becomes Industry

There is something spiritually dissonant about a message of radical humility being delivered from a jumbotron. Christianity—at its core—is a message of surrender, of love without agenda, of giving to those who cannot give back. And yet the Christian speaker circuit has become something else entirely: a closed loop of fame, inspiration, and commerce.

They sell us the idea of abundance through God, but the abundance flows in one direction: from the pockets of believers into the bank accounts of those speaking. And still, we call it ministry. We call it purpose.

But this is not ministry. This is market.

And it is time we name it as such.

A Final Thought

If you leave a Life Surge event feeling hopeful, that’s not inherently bad. We all need reminders of resilience, and some of these speakers do have compelling, worthwhile stories. But don’t mistake the electricity of production for the presence of God. And don’t forget: the system only works because we, the audience, are willing to believe in the transaction.

They inspire us to be millionaires—but we make them millionaires first.

And that, perhaps, is the truest altar call of all.