The Gospel of Fame

Last week I sat in a circle of strangers, talking about the artists we love to hate and the ones we hate to love. The event was called “Hate to Love, Love to Hate,” a community conversation about how to hold art made by people who have caused harm. The questions were heavy and familiar: Can we separate the art from the artist? Is cancel culture effective, or just another form of punishment? How do we keep listening, reading, watching, when the creators themselves are tangled in scandal?

At one point I blurted something that mostly hung in the air: we can’t make sense of any of this without looking at America’s obsession with meritocracy—our Calvinist inheritance. It’s not just a cultural quirk, it’s baked into our history. More than a century ago, sociologist Max Weber argued in The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism that Protestant values—especially Calvinist asceticism and predestination—gave rise to modern capitalism. Work wasn’t just labor; it was proof of your salvation. By the 1980s, the logic had gone full technicolor: evangelical preachers were moonlighting as financial advisors, blessing prosperity as godliness, and selling the bald-eagle dream of a private jet alongside salvation, all so they could buy their own.

That same equation still haunts us: money = hard work = moral worth. Which is why the rich become our role models, celebrities become our saints, and parasocial culture becomes our modern theology.

The Self-Made Myth

Americans are obsessed with the self-made man. Our whole brand is freedom—don’t tread on me. I was raised in Texas, where you learn fast that government exists not to protect people but property—and in turn, profit. From the Revolution’s war heroes to the cowboys of the West to the entrepreneurs of Silicon Valley, the American archetype has been the rugged individual who triumphs in spite of institutions—the war hero, the cowboy, the entrepreneur, each just a remix of the same Marlboro Man myth in different pants.

Manifest Destiny, Misread

Manifest Destiny was never predestination. We weren’t gifted virgin land from our Sky Daddy—we just showed up, planted a flag, and called it a housewarming present from God. That myth became the seed of meritocracy: the belief that individual effort carries the most power, that wealth and success are the surest signs of virtue.

Parasocial Calvinism

Fast-forward a few centuries and parasocial culture is Calvinism in digital clothes. The algorithm is our new God, lifting some and ignoring others. Virality feels random, yet suspiciously manufactured—you can almost hear the corporate breath behind “viral” successes, like God outsourced miracles to the marketing department. Why did that video explode? Why did that essay get 100,000 reads? We may not trust the mechanism, but we still treat the chosen ones as proof of merit. Celebrities become our saints, influencers our prophets, followers our restless congregation.

And we still cling to the old logic: visibility must equal virtue. Which is why we simultaneously idolize celebrities for “earning it” and tear them down the moment their humanity shows.

The Cracks Are Starting to Show

Parasocial relationships have been with us since the invention of television. But they’ve warped into something stranger now that the TV fits in our back pocket. Our worship of wealth and visibility is starting to crack at the edges.

Look at Leonardo DiCaprio: slinking under a Dodgers cap, face half-covered, sneaking into a billionaire’s wedding hosted in a rented-out city that’s literally sinking. You can practically imagine the 😬 emoji plastered under his cap, as if even Leo knows he’s starring in his least convincing role yet: a celebrated humanitarian playing the part of Billionaire’s Plus-One. For decades he’s been praised for his environmental advocacy, yet here he looks like nothing more than a junkie—down bad for a good time. When even our “role models” look embarrassed by their own appetites, meritocracy starts to lose its luster.

Cancel Culture as Modern Witch Trial

This is why parasocial culture comes with entitlement. If celebrities are the “elect,” then their lives belong to us—their relationships, skincare routines, bad days. We admire them because we think they’ve earned it, but the moment luck is too obvious or flaws too human, we flip.

Cancel culture is Puritan logic in a new costume: demanding purity from the chosen, excommunicating those who fail. Fame is treated like salvation; scandal like sin.

Toward a New Frame

So where does that leave us? Last week’s event didn’t settle the art-vs-artist debate, but maybe that’s the point. There isn’t a right answer. What matters is building the muscle of discernment—learning to sit with contradiction, to hold “I don’t know,” to recognize luck without mistaking it for virtue.

Meritocracy doesn’t need to be destroyed outright, but it does need to be stripped of its shadow. Effort matters, yes. Craft matters. Discipline matters. But luck is real, privilege is real, and worth is not contingent on visibility.

Parasocial relationships will keep shaping us, but maybe they don’t need to be our main sustenance. Think of art as the main course—the nourishing dish that carries substance. Entertainment, by contrast, is dessert: decadent, delightful, but not meant to feed us entirely.

And fandom? That’s the cake you bake for yourself. A sweet, over-the-top creation layered with your own taste, mood, and imagination. Someone else’s “sprinkles” might be your “eggs”—what feels frivolous to one person might be essential to another. The point is not to mistake the cake for the whole meal. Dessert is for joy, not nutrition—nobody ever said fandom was part of a balanced breakfast.

Closing

As for me? I want to be in bigger circles. I won’t pretend otherwise. But I don’t want to get there by chasing the old meritocracy myth. I want to get there the way an athlete trains: reps, recovery, legacy. If visibility comes, I’ll meet it with discernment, not worship. In the end, parasociality isn’t salvation—it’s dessert. And the audience I’m writing for isn’t the algorithm or the elect—it’s the people who can carry nuance with me. Eat the cake, sure. Just don’t mistake it for communion.