The Book of YouTube

It’s a Monday night in Gig Harbor, Wash., and some 300 high schoolers are crammed elbow to elbow to hear Jeff Bethke talk about some of their favorite topics: sex, porn and partying. The young Christians are texting him questions (“How can I convince my boyfriend to wait to have sex? I’m scared he’s going to leave me”; “Why can’t we do what you did, experiment now and come to God later?”), which the handsome, hoodied 22-year-old answers directly but in a way that keeps the focus on his favorite topic: Jesus. (“Break up with your boyfriend”; “Because Jesus loves you right now.”)

Bethke is not a pastor, a teacher or even a divinity student. He’s a YouTube sensation whose spoken-word poem “Why I Hate Religion, but Love Jesus” has been viewed more than 19 million times since Jan. 10. The video’s polished sound and multiple camera angles set it apart from many other viral phenomena, but its claim to fame is Bethke’s head-snapping assertion in the opening line that “Jesus came to abolish religion.”

The recent college grad, whose poem rails against the hypocrisy and self-righteousness too often associated with churchgoers, is hardly the first to speak out on these issues. But his success in getting young people to listen is making him a focal point of the conversation. With lines like “Religion puts you in shackles, but Jesus sets you free/ Religion makes you blind, but Jesus lets you see,” Bethke has struck a chord with his demographic, that group of Americans, ages 18 to 29, who in recent surveys call themselves spiritual but not religious, a growing contingent that avoids churches but still loves Jesus.

Bethke’s anger in the video (“I hate religion. In fact I literally resent it”) has led millions to watch his other riffs–on such topics as sex, marriage and immodest Halloween costumes–and got him interviews on CBS This Morning and ABC’s Nightline. He’s also been the subject of more than 200 response videos, which collectively have been viewed more than 2 million times, and harsh critiques by everyone from David Brooks of the New York Times–who said Bethke, like many of today’s protesters, has failed to present a plan of action–to a Michigan pastor who in a blog post detailed Bethke’s inaccuracies verse by verse.

Bethke admits his theology, as he puts it, may not be “airtight,” but his delivery–with his shaved head and sloganeering–offers lessons for churches looking to get young people into their pews. “My generation wants authenticity,” says Bethke, who stresses that he made the video for people who shudder when they hear “religion” and consider it a synonym for voting Republican, hating gays and being bigoted and mean. “My whole point in writing the poem was to help separate the two, to help people get the blurriness out of their eyes so they could see Jesus for who he really is.”

That might have been Bethke’s intent, but his lyrics sound a lot like a fight against organized religion. His fans on YouTube–on which he has more than 130,000 subscribers–might be surprised to learn that Bethke likes church. He attends a Seattle megachurch called Mars Hill and strives to practice what it preaches. Raised by a single mother in a rough part of Tacoma, he drank, smoked pot and had sex in college, where he also played baseball. “I would wear the cross around my neck and pray before games, but I was living two different lives,” he says. It wasn’t until his girlfriend dumped him and he was kicked off the baseball team for being on academic probation that he says he developed what he calls a personal relationship with Jesus.

Now this cool prodigal son goes regularly to a church that features rock music and preachers in skinny jeans. Bethke is adopting some of the techniques the Internet-savvy Mars Hill uses to attract young members, and he is repackaging the words of big-name pastors in an art form that appeals to disaffected youth.

Because of his YouTube videos, Bethke is fielding book deals and job offers, traveling the country on a speaking tour and selling JESUS RELIGION T-shirts. He has taken a leave from his day job (running an after-school sports program) but still lives in Tacoma with nine other guys and sleeps in a bunk bed underneath his best friend, who is now his manager.

He says that while his fan base continues to grow, his challenge is to keep the focus on Jesus. “We are so quick to elevate anyone, to latch onto something to believe in other than God,” says Bethke. “I want to leverage my platform to say, Don’t latch onto me–latch onto him.” His newfound celebrity might make that more difficult than he bargained for.