Jonathan Haidt and the Myth of Doing Better

TL;DR:

Jonathan Haidt’s The Anxious Generation mirrors the same problem that plagues much modern preaching—it assumes transformation depends solely on human effort. Like “lettuce sermons” (“Let us go and do better”), it offers practical advice without transcendence. Real change, however, requires more than technique or effort; it requires grace, imagination, and the work of the Holy Spirit.

The Gospel isn’t a life hack

I recently finished The Anxious Generation by Jonathan Haidt. For my thoughts on the content of the book per se, I’d recommend a previous Substack. In this post, I want to reflect more on the structure and underlying philosophical assumptions of the book—namely, that religion and spirituality are simply “life hacks” to help us flourish, and that real change depends on our human efforts alone.

To put it simply, Haidt’s book is a perfect example of the point Andrew Root makes throughout his Ministry in a Secular Age series—and a good example of the kind of preaching Ken Jones (The Undomesticated Preacher) of the Iowa Preachers Project (IPP), a preaching cohort I’m part of, warns against. Both fall into what Root and others call the immanent frame—the assumption that transformation is up to us.

The Real Problem with Phones (Isn’t Phones)

Lettuce Sermons and the Weight of Self-Help

I joined the IPP this past September. The cohort is steeped in Lutheran theology, and as a Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) pastor (and, frankly, a bit of a theological wanderer), I found myself a little lost in all the “law and gospel” talk. Thankfully, my friend and fellow Disciples of Christ pastor Dennis Sanders helped me find my footing.

One thing that’s been clear from IPP—and from conversations with Dennis—is that sermons should leave room for the Holy Spirit’s guidance, not just serve as moral lectures about how to be better people. Ken Jones calls these “lettuce sermons,” as in: “Let us go and do better.”

I get where he’s coming from. Not long ago, I heard a lettuce sermon myself, and it left me feeling flat and burdened. It was basically, just go and do better. And that’s exactly how Haidt’s book felt to me—another reminder of how much depends on me, on us, on our own effort.

Religion, in this frame, becomes inspiration or advice. Spirituality becomes technique. Change is up to us.

Form Reveals Theology

Haidt divides his book into four parts: a big hook, a diagnosis, and then a plan and call to action. It’s basically the StoryBrand framework—something I actually appreciate and use in my own communication. The book has a clear narrative arc: there’s a problem, a plan, and a call to act.

But what’s missing is what StoryBrand would call stakes—a compelling vision of what success or failure actually looks like. Without that, it becomes flat. There’s no deeper horizon, no transcendent purpose—just “go fix it.”

And that’s the same thing that happens with lettuce sermons. Without stakes, they lose power. People leave not inspired, but weighed down, carrying one more list of things to improve.

Guidance vs. Grind

I’ll admit: I pushed back on the idea that sermons shouldn’t have any call to action. With biblical and theological literacy at an all-time low, I think people need some sense of direction. A good sermon, in my view, helps listeners see what faith might look like in practice.

But there’s a difference between guidance and grind. Calls to action are helpful when they’re rooted in grace, not guilt. They should arise from what God has done, not what we must do to prove ourselves.

I remember attending a storytelling workshop at the Festival of Homiletics. A preacher told a powerful story—but when it ended, I thought, what was the point? I didn’t know what to do with what I’d just heard. That’s where a gentle, grace-shaped call to action can help—it gives people a place to start, not a burden to carry.

Vision and Imagination

Family systems expert and UMC pastor Jack Shitama talks about the importance of casting vision—not to control outcomes, but to help people imagine new possibilities. That’s where I think the Holy Spirit does the real work—when imagination starts to open up and we begin to glimpse what might be possible with God, not just by us.

That’s what’s missing in Haidt’s book. His plan is practical but purely human. He can tell us what to fix, but not what to hope for. (And if you read my last substack, that’s exactly the problem with the book). And that’s a problem not only in social commentary, but in preaching too. When everything depends on us, we end up anxious, exhausted, and empty.

Form Shapes Faith

This is where I land: structure matters. The way we shape our sermons, books, or any kind of communication says something about what we actually believe. When our form leaves no room for grace—no space for the Spirit—we communicate, even unintentionally, that it’s all on us. And if The Anxious Generation shows anything, it’s that we can’t bear that weight alone.

I started reading The Anxious Generation because my daughter’s middle school was giving them away, and I CANNOT say no to a free book. They’re also hosting a book discussion, which I went to this past Tuesday, where I was the ONLY dad among about fifteen women.

The conversation was… fine, but awkward. Everyone seemed to start their comments with some version of, “I only let my kids use their devices this much,” as if we were all there to prove who was the least permissive parent—or maybe the most in-control one—in the room. It felt overly moralistic. At one point, I chimed in that maybe change has to start with us adults. We haven’t exactly modeled calm, respectful dialogue over the last ten or fifteen years, especially in the political arena. I wanted to say more, but most of what I was thinking didn’t fit the tone of the conversation.

What I wanted to say is that, while we can’t change the whole world, we can change the small worlds we inhabit—our homes, our families, our communities. Not by piling on more rules or screen-time charts (when has behavior management ever really worked?), but by giving our kids something bigger to live for.(which, again, is a point I made in my last Substack—go read it).

Imagine If…

Imagine if, instead of scrolling on Saturday mornings, kids were out with friends cleaning up a park—not because someone told them to, but because they felt a pull to care for this shared planet, this one fragile home we all inhabit. Imagine them discovering that tending the earth can be its own kind of joy.

Imagine if, instead of comparing themselves online, students noticed the kid sitting alone at lunch—and remembered what it feels like to be lonely. Imagine them choosing presence over performance, seeing that connection isn’t built through perfect profiles but through simple acts of attention and kindness.

Imagine if, instead of chasing likes, young people spent their evenings serving others—not for a résumé line or a photo op, but because they realized that meaning runs deeper than recognition. That fulfillment comes not from being seen, but from seeing and caring for someone else.

And imagine if, in all of this, kids felt the filling of the Spirit in their lives—a sense of purpose and satisfaction that no algorithm could ever replicate. Imagine them discovering that real joy isn’t found in scrolling endlessly, but in being fully alive to God’s presence and calling.

We can help them see that life’s meaning doesn’t come from likes or algorithms but from giving yourself away—to something larger than yourself, to a purpose that restores rather than consumes, to the kind of love that centers your life around compassion, generosity, and service—which for me, is the way of Jesus.

That’s the kind of anxiety I could live with.