Christianity after #RaptureTok

"Thinking is not the enemy of believing—shallow thinking is!" (Joseph Ola)

In September 2025, the world watched—half in curiosity, half in ridicule—as a strange digital revival unfolded on TikTok under the hashtag #RaptureTok. It began with the bold prophecy of a young South African preacher, Joshua Mhlakela, who declared that the long-awaited Rapture would occur on the 23rd or 24th of September. His words travelled faster than any sermon could, crossing borders and languages, collecting over 300,000 posts in a matter of weeks. Some sold their possessions or resigned from their jobs in preparation; others posted memes and jokes, parodying what they saw as yet another “end of the world” fiasco. When the predicted date came and went, there was confusion, regret, and even reinterpretation. Mhlakela, undeterred, revised his timeline, citing the Julian calendar and pushing the date forward to October 7–8. But now, as I write these words on October 10, both dates have passed, and the world remains very much intact.

One cannot help but wonder: how did a preacher like Joshua Mhlakela gain enough credibility for his delusion to become a viral movement? Why did thousands—not only in Africa, but across the globe—take him seriously, at least for a while? There are many possible answers, of course: the hunger for hope in a chaotic world, the influence of social media algorithms, the performative allure of apocalyptic religion. Yet, given Mhlakela’s South African context, I cannot help but wonder whether his African religiosity played a part in the making of #RaptureTok. The very instinct that makes us open to God’s voice may also make us vulnerable to any voice that claims to speak for Him.

John S. Mbiti opens his classic African Religions and Philosophy1 with a statement that has echoed through decades of African theology: “The African is notoriously religious.” For those familiar with life in Africa, Mbiti’s claim needs no footnote. Religion, in Africa, is not a department of life—it is life itself. It runs through everything: our greetings and our grief, our festivals and our funerals, our politics and our prayers.

I still remember hearing that statement for the first time. It was during my master’s studies in African Christianity at Liverpool Hope University in 2019. I had been a Christian nearly all my life—raised within a devout family, converted in my teenage years, and immersed in church work for as long as I could remember. I thought I knew Christianity. I thought I knew its history. But it wasn’t until that class, when my lecturer Dr Harvey Kwiyani quoted Mbiti, that I began to realise how much of my own story was entangled in a larger, older, more complex story—a story of faith on African soil stretching back almost two thousand years.

I had not known, for instance, that Christianity in Africa was as ancient as Christianity itself—that before Europe heard the Gospel, Africa already had apostles, churches, and theologians. I had never stopped to consider that the Ethiopian eunuch of Acts 8 was the first recorded African Christian; or that Alexandria, in Egypt, became one of the earliest centres of theological scholarship in the Christian world; or that men like Augustine of Hippo, Origen, and Tertullian—whose writings helped shape global Christianity—were Africans.

So when Mbiti said “the African is notoriously religious,” I understood immediately what he meant—and yet I also began to wonder what that notoriety really signified for us today.

A World Alive with Spirits

To be African is, in many ways, to live in an enchanted universe. The spiritual realm is not a theory; it is an assumed reality. In my Yoruba upbringing, no one needed to prove that God exists. We knew. The existence of a Supreme Being was not a topic for debate or a category for apologetics. While Western Christians built elaborate systems of “Christian apologetics” to defend belief in God against atheism, Africans rarely faced such questions. God, for us, needed no introduction.

I grew up hearing proverbs that reminded me that I am living in a world where visible and invisible realities constantly overlap. Even our storytelling—whether in traditional folklore or Christian drama—mirrors this worldview. In my childhood, long before I could get to read Ògbójú Ọdẹ nínú Igbó Irúnmọlẹ̀ which Professor Wole Soyinka would later translate as The Forest of a Thousand Daemons, I have heard many such stories from the adults in our community who are good at story-telling. While TV was not as on-demand as it is today, I still remember following some mini-series on our local TV of stories that, long after watching them, makes my environment come alive. All of a sudden, the tree I have walked past many times without thinking suddenly becomes a possible dwelling place for some dangerous—or benevolent—spirits. We saw movies where spirits converse with mortals, and destinies can be negotiated in dreams. Later, I discovered Christian counterparts in the productions of Mount Zion Faith Ministries—films like Agbara Nla (The Ultimate Power) or Apoti Eri (Ark of the Covenant)—where the spiritual world and the physical are in constant dialogue. In both traditions, the underlying assumption is the same: the unseen is as real as the seen.

To this day, I can recall a particular tree in front of the High School attended by my older siblings—a single tree bearing about five different kinds of leaves. Everyone knew it was no ordinary tree. Sacrifices would appear at its base from time to time, offerings left for the spirits believed to dwell within it. Such stories may sound strange to the secular ear, but to the African mind, they make perfect sense. We inhabit a world thick with spiritual presence.

This is the reality that theologian Mbiti was pointing to: a worldview so steeped in religious consciousness that even the ordinary becomes sacred. But as I have come to realise, that deep religiosity is both our blessing and our burden.

The Blessing and the Burden

Our blessing is that, unlike in the secular West, faith in the divine has never lost its plausibility. Africans do not need to be convinced that the spiritual realm exists; we simply need to be taught how to navigate it wisely. There is power, resilience, and hope in such a worldview. It sustains communities through hardship, fosters generosity, and infuses meaning into every aspect of life.

Yet, the same trait that makes us “notoriously religious” can also make us notoriously uncritical. Too often, our faith expressions slip into superstition; our spirituality turns shallow; our prayers become substitutes for responsibility. We can pray fervently for good governance and yet neglect to vote. We can fast for financial breakthrough and yet resist the discipline of saving or budgeting. We can cast out demons while ignoring systems of injustice that keep people bound.

I recall one English teacher in my secondary school asking us to write an essay titled: “Those who do not vote elect bad leaders.” It was meant as a lesson in civic duty, but I have since seen how that statement cuts to the heart of our religiosity. We sometimes prefer to “pray it into being” rather than to act it into being.

And so, the challenge is not that we are too religious, but that our religion is often unexamined—heavy on emotion, light on reflection. We take pride in calling fire down from heaven but rarely pause to ask whether the fire we call for will purify or merely consume. Worse, for the generation before mine, they have become unaccustomed to asking questions. In many of our contexts, questioning a religious idea can feel like questioning God Himself. Our elders taught us reverence—and rightly so—but reverence without reflection easily becomes fear. And when fear governs faith, people simply stop thinking!

To be notoriously religious is, too often, to wear our zeal like armour against reason. We fast, pray, shout, and dance—but rarely pause to think through why we do what we do. I have been in prayer meetings where participants were told to shout the name of Jesus three times, followed by three cries of “Fire!” before they could begin their requests. To an outsider, such ritualised intensity may appear strange. Yet to the insider, it is simply what “works.” We have learned the performance of spirituality but sometimes missed its meaning.

This unexamined religiosity can lead to tragic missteps. It can make us more superstitious than spiritual. It can make us seek deliverance from what only discipline can solve. It can make us outsource responsibility to God for tasks He has entrusted to us. In politics, it can make us pray for honest leaders while refusing to participate in the civic process. In education, it can make us dismiss science as worldly. In theology, it can make us allergic to complexity—preferring simple slogans to deep study.

And yet, as much as I lament this, I do not say it as an outsider. I have been that Christian who prays before he plans, who quotes verses he never studies, who uses “God will do it” as a holy excuse for laziness. The point is not to condemn our spirituality, but to redeem it—to bring thoughtfulness back into our faith.

Christian faith was never meant to be anti-intellectual. The same God who commands us to “love Him with all our heart and soul” also commands us to love Him “with all our mind” (Mark 12:30). The Holy Spirit does not suspend our intellect; He sanctifies it. Thinking is not the enemy of believing—shallow thinking is.

Beyond One Tradition

One of the surest ways to heal our uncritical religiosity is to broaden our theological horizons. There is more to the Christian faith than what we hear from our local pulpits. God has always revealed Himself in community, not uniformity. The Church, at her healthiest, has many voices—prophetic, contemplative, Pentecostal, liturgical, evangelical, African, Asian, Western, and Indigenous. Each carries a piece of the whole.

Unfortunately, many of us grow up in church contexts that act as if their theological lane is the only valid one. We are warned—as we should—to be careful about the kinds of books we read and the preachers we listen to. But genuine discipleship requires curiosity. A faith that never asks questions will not survive a world that never stops questioning.

So, when I urge my generation to think deeply about their faith, I am not asking us to become sceptics. I am inviting us to become students of God. To be open to learning from other streams of the Christian tradition. To read a bit of Bonhoeffer alongside a bit of Byang Kato; to engage Tertullian and Tope Alabi in the same breath. To study theology—formally or informally—as an act of worship.

We must become the kind of Christians who know that truth is not a threat to faith; it is faith’s finest friend.

"Thinking is not the enemy of believing—shallow thinking is!" (Joseph Ola)

Owning Our African Voice

Theological education, particularly African theological education, is one of the most potent tools for cultivating such depth. Institutions like the Church Mission Society, the Akrofi-Christaller Institute, and the Africa International University in Kenya, among others, are raising a new generation of African thinkers who read both the Bible and the culture with equal attentiveness.

To study theology in Africa today is to rediscover the wisdom of our mothers and fathers in the faith—from Augustine and Athanasius to Mbiti and Bediako, from Mercy Amba Oduyoye and Afua Kuma to Kwiyani and Orobator. It is to listen for God’s voice not only in Western commentaries but in African proverbs, stories, and songs.

And even if one never sits in a theological classroom, there are accessible companions for this journey. The Africa Study Bible and the Africa Bible Commentary are among the finest examples of African theological interpretation available today. They bring the Scriptures alive within our contexts—addressing issues we face daily, in our languages, with our idioms. To read Scripture through African eyes is not to distort it; it is to see its colours more clearly.

To be “notoriously religious” in this sense is to be notoriously thoughtful—to hold a Bible in one hand and a proverb in the other, to bring our ancestral wisdom and our Spirit-filled imagination to bear on life’s questions for today, that we may pass it on to the generations after ours.

In this era of global connectivity—of smartphones, podcasts,  and AI—we must ask what kind of religiosity we are passing on to the next generation. Will it be a faith that merely performs rituals, or a faith that pursues understanding? Will it be a faith that hides from difficult questions, or one that wrestles honestly with them?

Our faith is a gift, yes—but every gift brings responsibility. To be African and Christian today is to hold a sacred trust: to bear witness to the vitality of the Gospel in our context, without surrendering our intellect, creativity, or cultural wisdom. To be “notoriously religious” must no longer mean “notoriously unthinking.” It must mean notoriously devoted, notoriously discerning, notoriously wise.

The kind of religiosity that thrives on fear and formula—that quotes Scripture without reflection, obeys authority without question, and prays without ever planning may look fervent, but it rarely transforms. What we need is a shift from naïve religion to critical spirituality—a spirituality that thinks, questions, and studies, yet remains humble, prayerful, and obedient. To be critical does not mean to be cynical. It means to engage our faith thoughtfully, aware that the God who reveals Himself through Scripture also speaks through creation, culture, and community.

The Church in Africa is bursting with energy, creativity, and potential. But energy without reflection can become chaos. Passion without knowledge can lead to error. If our churches are to mature, if our young believers are to be rooted, we must cultivate a generation of Christians who can pray in tongues and also read with insight; who can sing and also study; who can dance before the Lord and also discern His will in complex matters of life and society.

We must raise believers who can think theologically about technology, Artificial Intelligence, ethics, governance, gender, and justice—who can bring a biblical mind and an African heart to bear on global conversations. This is the future of African Christianity: a faith that is emotionally vibrant, intellectually rigorous, and socially transformative.

You are a Theologian, too!

Perhaps you are reading this and wondering where to begin. Start small. Pick up an Africa Study Bible and read Scripture through its contextual notes. Explore the Africa Bible Commentary. Read African theologians like Mbiti, Bediako, Orobator, and Kwiyani. Listen to sermons from other traditions. Ask questions—not because you doubt, but because you desire depth.

Theology is not just for academics; it is for every believer who wants to love God more intelligently. To study God is to worship Him with the mind He gave you. You don’t need a seminary to begin; all you need is curiosity and humility.

And to those who feel a tug toward theological education, consider it prayerfully. The Church in Africa needs not only preachers and prophets but also thinkers and teachers—men and women who can interpret the Word in the language of the world they live in. The mission of God requires both fire and light.

Yes, the African is notoriously religious—but may we become notoriously wise too. May our prayers be thoughtful, our study prayerful, and our living faithful. May we never trade depth for drama, nor devotion for dogma. May we be the generation that learns to think as we pray, and to pray as we think. 

And when the world looks at African Christianity—vibrant, joyful, expressive, and unashamedly spiritual—may they no longer see a faith that is naïve, but one that is deeply grounded, critically engaged, and beautifully African. 

So, yes—be religious. But do not be notoriously ignorant. Rather, be notoriously alive—alive to God, alive to wisdom, and alive to the Spirit who leads us into all truth.

May this be our reality, in Jesus’ name.

And everybody says . . . “Amen.”

1. John S. Mbiti, African Religions and Philosophy. Oxford: Heinemann Educational Books, 1969.