Glitz, Perks, and Loneliness: What the Church Can Learn from Casinos
In my life, I have visited only two casinos. The first time was during a youth mission trip to Las Vegas, when we hurried through the Rio Casino to reach the world’s largest buffet at the time. The second was as an adult in Evansville, Indiana, where I received a fuller orientation to casino life. I will return to that memory at the conclusion of this essay.
Most of my casino knowledge comes not from firsthand experience but from movies and television. On screen, casinos often appear glamorous, but in reality they exude an atmosphere of discontentment, exploitation, and false promises. Watching Ocean’s Eleven for perhaps the millionth time, I found myself unsettled by a question that has since weighed heavily on me: How similar is the American church to a modern-day casino?
The question may sound absurd, yet the parallels are unsettling. We have long joked about churches becoming like country clubs or cruise ships. Perhaps I am only adding another troubling metaphor to the list. Still, consider with me a few familiar features of casinos—and how they too often reflect the state of the American church.
Casinos are known for their “high-rollers”—those who wager vast sums of money and are courted with special perks. While originally a gambling term, “high-roller” has entered everyday vocabulary to describe someone treated with privilege because of wealth. Does the church have high-rollers? Sadly, yes. Some generous givers are granted special access, leadership influence, or honorific titles such as “executive volunteer,” while faithful but less wealthy saints are overlooked. Paul’s qualifications for church leaders in 1 Timothy 3 say nothing about business acumen or financial capacity. James, in his letter, explicitly condemns partiality toward the wealthy at the expense of the poor. Yet, in practice, the larger the church grows, the more it seems to depend on these ecclesial high-rollers, often relocating to wealthier neighborhoods while leaving poorer communities underserved by gospel witness.
Casinos also entice patrons with perks—discounted drinks, free meals, and promotions designed to keep gamblers at the tables. Churches, of course, do not offer cocktails, but they often rely on free food, elaborate marketing hooks, or other enticements to attract attendees. The danger is clear: what you use to draw people in, you must continue to provide in order to keep them. Perks may fill pews temporarily, but they rarely cultivate mature disciples.
Since Elvis Presley’s residency in 1969, casinos have been famous for dazzling shows—from The Rat Pack to Celine Dion. Entertainment keeps the crowds coming back. Many churches now rival casinos in their production value. Lights, cameras, fog machines, massive screens, and concert-level sound systems make worship services resemble Vegas shows. With John Hammond from Jurassic Park, some churches can say, “Spared no expense.” But Jesus warned against this approach. Crowds followed Him for the miracles but abandoned Him when He spoke hard truths (John 8). A dazzling stage may attract visitors, but it cannot replace the Spirit’s power through the faithful preaching of the gospel. The early church turned the world upside down not with shows, but with truth.
Finally, casinos are filled with lonely individuals. Picture the rows of people at slot machines, zombie-like, each clinging to the faint hope of hitting a jackpot. Though advertisements show laughter and community, most gamblers are isolated, lost in their own pursuit. Is this not also true in many churches? People sit alone in darkened sanctuaries, anonymous and unknown, week after week. They may tithe, pray, and consume spiritual content, yet never experience true fellowship. The larger the church, the easier it is to hide. But gospel maturity flourishes in relationships, not in isolation. The church must press people into biblical community—something more easily achieved in smaller congregations where shepherds know their sheep.
When my wife and I visited that riverboat casino in Evansville, my first impression was the suffocating cigarette haze, like the smoke monster from Lost. Yet the most haunting memory was not the smoke but the despair etched on the faces of men and women pulling levers, lifelessly feeding machines that promised victory but delivered only emptiness.
Casinos promise success but steal life. Jesus Christ came not to steal, but to give life. His church must be a place of refreshment through God’s Word and the love of His people. The gospel requires no high-rollers, no dazzling shows, no perks, and no lonely anonymity. It requires Christ, the Good Shepherd, who leads His people to green pastures and living water.
We become what we behold. Churches patterned after casinos produce shallow Christianity—heavy on spectacle and consumerism, light on discipleship and holiness. But churches that call people to behold the living God through His Word and through genuine community shape disciples into the likeness of Christ. The mission of the church is not to mimic the casino with its high-rollers, perks, shows, and isolation. The mission of the church is to make disciples of Jesus Christ. Anything less is false advertising.
