The second season of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives drops today, and even without seeing a full episode, we can already see the vibes are once again deeply chaotic.
If you’ve caught any of the clips floating around TikTok or watched the trailers, you already know: we’re in for another season of soft-filtered spiritual contradictions. One minute, there’s talk of Mormon covenants and eternal family. The next, it’s secret divorces, messy group texts and confessions that feel more Real Housewives than Relief Society. And somehow, it all happens under the banner of Mormon faith.
But Mormon Wives isn’t a one-off. It’s just the latest chapter in a broader trend—a genre of reality TV where religion isn’t just part of the story, it is the story. And more often than not, that story is completely, gloriously unhinged.
Across streaming platforms, religion is increasingly treated like a plot twist. Shows tee up high-stakes drama with lines like “Faith is the foundation of everything I do,” only to follow them with scenes of betrayal, secrets and spiritual breakdowns. It’s not just hypocrisy—it’s the hook.
Other series follow the same formula. Shiny Happy People cracked open the Duggar family’s polished exterior to reveal a darker, controlling world behind the scenes. The Secrets of Hillsong offered a brooding, cinematic deep dive into celebrity church culture. Even The Bachelor can’t resist: year after year, contestants proclaim they’re saving themselves for marriage—until they aren’t. The contrast between the promise and the practice isn’t accidental. It’s the point.
What makes these shows compelling is also what makes them unsettling. They rely on faith as a narrative device. Belief systems provide the scaffolding. The implosions are the entertainment. And audiences keep tuning in, not in spite of the spiritual drama, but because of it.
Off-screen, things aren’t much more grounded. Faith-based content has become its own category on TikTok and Instagram. Scroll long enough and you’ll find hot takes on theology, emotional testimonies in well-lit cars and confessionals that are less about accountability and more about engagement. Some are heartfelt. Others are heavily curated. Most are a bit of both.
We’ve reached a point where someone can build a platform around the language of belief while living a completely different reality behind the screen. You can say “God told me to do this” while filming a brand deal in the same breath. Repentance is now public. Vulnerability is part of the algorithm.
To be clear, people are still hungry for real faith. Barna’s research shows Gen Z is one of the most spiritually open generations in recent history. Young adults are asking deeper questions and searching for meaning. But when the loudest examples of Christianity are wrapped in aesthetic contradictions, it’s hard to know what to trust. There’s a genuine desire for something grounded, something holy. And it keeps getting hijacked for likes.
It’s not all performative. Plenty of people share their faith online with honesty and integrity. But we’re all shaped by the media we consume. And right now, the dominant cultural narrative around religion is one of contradiction. It’s belief as branding, grace as content, sanctification with a sponsorship code.
None of this means we should stop watching reality TV or log off the internet forever. That’s not going to happen. But we do have to ask what we’re absorbing from it all. What’s our default image of faith? If every depiction we see is either wildly dysfunctional or suspiciously polished, are we learning anything about what it means to follow God in a meaningful way?
This might be the most spiritually unhinged era of reality TV yet. But maybe it’s also an invitation—to pause, to question, to go deeper than the noise. Real faith doesn’t need an audience. It’s not always pretty, or viral, or easy to package. Most of the time, it’s quiet. It’s consistent. It’s anonymous.
In a culture obsessed with spectacle, that might be the most countercultural thing of all.
