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Re-enchanting
Weirdness
4 min read

The age of re-enchantment and how brands will exploit it

One of the world's largest advertising agencies has released a report on 're-enchantment', Daniel Kim predicts a not-too-distant future when brands will exploit and commodify spiritual hunger.

Daniel is an advertising strategist turned vicar-in-training.

The Age of Re-Enchantment

Last month, Wunderman Thompson published a new insight report called The age of re-enchantment. I was giddy to get into it, not least because Seen & Unseen has a podcast called 'Re-Enchanting' (which you should listen to by the way). 

For the uninitiated, Wunderman Thompson is a 20,000 person-strong global advertising agency who literally invented the term ‘marketing’ back in 1961. With clients like Heinz Ketchup, Burger King, Bose, HSBC, KitKat and countless other ubiquitous brands, they are a culture-shaping juggernaut. They’re no joke. 

Like all Wunderman reports, The age of re-enchantment is meticulously researched, beautifully presented, and written with finesse, coining terms left, right and centre like 'joy-deficit' and 'sensory techtopias'. It had me nodding along from the get-go.  

'Re-enchantment is fulfilling a craving for feelings of wonder and awe, an appetite for joy and fun, and an openness to thrills and adventures'.

Yes.  

The top two emotions that people want more of in their lives are ‘joy’ and ‘hope’.

Yes, yes! 

'We live in a rational, explained world, and one in which we are harried and anxious, with little time to pause and pursue these sensations'. 

Yes, yes, yes! 

But then, as I read on, my warm glee turned into abject horror.  

In the introduction of the report, Marie Stafford, the Global Director of Wunderman Thompson wrote:  

'It’s time to remake the world through the lens of re-enchantment, where the new brand metrics are jaw drops, heart swells, and goosebumps. Brands can help people transcend tough times and jolt them from long-standing malaise by celebrating the thrilling and uplifting, the awe-inspiring, and the magical' 

In other words, the market has recognised this profound existential hunger in culture at large, and will now try and extract capital value from you.  

A couple months ago, I wrote a piece on the dangers of selling spirituality and wellness, and how it had become a $3.7 trillion dollar industry, warning that 'we can’t let our spiritual hunger be commodified for profit'. Well, get ready folks. Here comes the re-enchanting brands here to do just that. 

The middle bulk of the report parades a line-up of case-studies that have leant into the ‘age of re-enchantment’.  

Some brands, like Levi Strauss, were leaning into themes of mortality and death in the post-pandemic period, such as in the 2023 Campaign, 'Greatest Story Ever Worn: Legends never Die'. This ad dramatises the true story of a man who requested all his loved ones to wear Levi’s to his funeral.  

 

The Greatest Story Ever Worn: Legends Never Die, 2023

Levi 501 2023 Campaign

Others were leaning into the desire for transcendence, trying to (legally) replicate spiritual and psychedelic experiences. Of note was a new VR experience called Isness-D developed to deliver a transcendent experience that replicates spiritual and near-death experiences. Apparently, this VR product has similar effects to a medium dose of LSD.  

Product demonstration of Isness-D.

Isness-D Demonstration

The report also recommended that brands tap into the ‘Joyconomy’. Yup, you read that right. That means ‘advocating for moments of joy, play and fun’ because that can be a ‘powerful strategy for brands to uplift and engage customers’. After all, 49 per cent of people say that they would be even more likely to purchase from a brand that brings them a sense of joy. In fact, the CEO of Daybreak, a fitness-and-dance company, even said that one of the core KPIs for her business is ‘tears of joy’. …  

Look, I’m sure they mean well, but quite frankly, I don’t want to be part of a world where tears of joy(!) are considered key performance indicators for brands. Tears of joy are for weddings, reunions, or the end of a national war. Not a market transaction! Similarly, I find something bizarrely distasteful about a mortality-themed brand activation. ‘Yes, embrace your mortality and stare into the void, but don’t forget to buy our 501 Original Levi Denim.’ And I don’t know about you, but if I am going to seek out experiences of profound, spiritual transcendence, I’m sure as hell not going to do it in some VR-fake-LSD-hellscape-nightmare that I overpaid for.  

There’s a profound irony in all of it. There is chunky section in the report about the rise of ‘New Spiritual Rebels’, the ever-growing community of people interested and practicing non-traditional religions like witchcraft and paganism. The report recognises that, wrapped up in this movement, there is a desire to 'break things down and build them up again in paths of inclusive post-capitalist… futures'.  

How are brands meant to respond to that?! “Ah, yes”, nodded the advertiser. “Now, how do we bake that into our new Spring campaign for Airbnb? Maybe an authentic Wicca hut in Salem could be the hero ad?” It’s absurd.  

This is blindingly obvious, but brands will be hopeless at addressing questions of mortality, transcendence, awe, serendipity, hope, joy, and meaning in a chaotic and anxious world. I love brands, but that’s above their pay-grade. Unfortunately, that won’t stop them from trying to commodify 're-enchantment' and extract capital value from it. No thank you.  

The age of re-enchantment is real, and this report does a tremendous job at demonstrating it. But this piece of work is not, and shouldn’t be, for brands. It should be for community and religious leaders, and it should be for you. And so I will end this article in a similar vein to my last one.  

If we are going to embark on this journey of re-enchanting our society with joy, spiritual depth, and existential meaning, we can’t let that hunger be commodified for profit. The re-enchantment of our hearts is too important for that. It is worth more, infinitely more, than 501 Originals.

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Nationalism
5 min read

I protested against the Unite The Kingdom protest

The need to see one another

Thomas is a writer exploring the intersection of faith, politics, and social justice.

CCTV footage show two rival protests divided by a line of riot police.
CCTV image of the rival protests on Whitehall.
Met Police.

I don’t know why I was so concerned about the horses. I kept noticing them swaying through the sea of shivering bodies. I was so drawn to them that I tried to take a photo, a rare occurrence for me, but I was too far away. The horses riders, dressed in full riot gear, were being pelted with beer bottles. Maybe the horses were getting hit too, but it felt like they were recoiling on behalf of their riders. 

In front of the horses, engulfing Trafalgar Square, were tens of thousands of “Unite the Kingdom” protestors. From what I could see, they were predominantly white men. Many of them were dancing and waving flags, but a sizeable contingent was furious, drunk, and insisted on attacking any unfortunate police officer in their way. 

Behind the horses, lining the streets of Whitehall, were five thousand counter-protestors, including me. Unlike our opposite numbers in Trafalgar Square, we were trapped, surrounded on every side by St George’s flags, Union Jacks, and, oddly, some Georgian flags too. Maybe the shop had sold out. To my right, I could see the counter-protestors defiantly dancing. To me left, I could see a group chanting “Nazi scum, off our streets” whilst swearing towards the St George’s flags. 

There in the middle, I found myself feeling a curious mixture of discomfort, sadness, and anger. Uncomfortable because I’d been trapped for four hours, stuck on a continuous cycle of rinse and drain. Sad, because I knew that much of the “Unite the Kingdom” violence was built on misinformation and the scapegoating of refugees, a group I know well, and because this fog of violence blew over the counter-protestors as they hurled insults towards the St George’s flags. And angry, because figures like Elon Musk were using their extraordinary wealth and influence to spread fear and lies: “Whether you choose violence or not, violence is coming to you. You either fight back or you die. You either fight back or you die. And that’s the truth. It’s only a matter of time till that happens to towns and villages. It will spread. And no one will have any peace.” Over the years, I have spent many hundreds, if not thousands, of hours with refugees and asylum seekers, both in my home and at my church. I had experienced no violence. In that moment, I was surrounded by “leftists”, socialists, and trade unionists, and the only violence I was experiencing was from the glint of beer bottles raining down on the police two hundred meters away. 

I was grateful for the interruption of an elderly lady asking if she could get past. I’d been asked a number of questions throughout the day, primarily because I was one of a group of four Christians holding signs like “Jesus was a refugee”, “love thy neighbour”, and “I was a stranger and you welcomed me”. At the start of the protest, an older lady and a young man joined our circle. The young man asked “I’m glad to see there are some Christians here. What do you think of Christian nationalism? Your religion doesn’t feel much like Jesus?” He was a brave Saudi Arabian refugee with a bright smile, earnestly questioning the fractures in my community of faith. Taken aback by the poignancy of the question, I fumbled a response before being rescued by one of my friends. 

Protest signs written on cardboard.
Tommy's protest signs before the rain.

 

After a while, the older lady started speaking. “Sorry for interrupting. I used to be a Roman Catholic, but I’ve lost my faith. On days like this though, I always want to pray. I don’t feel much hope for the church. A while ago, I went into a catholic church. I asked if the church could do anything about the divisions in our community and the anger at refugees. The priest shrugged and said no. I’m glad you’re here.” Her short, staccato sentences mirrored the tension of the day. I told her about how our church serves refugees, how I struggle with the anger of days like today, and how some of us have forgotten that the bible tells us to welcome the stranger dozens of times. As they walked away, I felt touched by the honesty both the young and old had gifted to four strangers, and I was glad to be carrying our smalls signs of hope. 

The megaphone brought the present back into view with another question. “Could everyone please get ready to leave up the left of Trafalgar Square?” it said. The police had cleared a path for us to leave, the sea of flags artificially parted by riot gear. We were escorted to Green Park tube station, at which point we turned off towards Oxford Street. My wife remarked at how quickly normality returned. I was devastated by the day, but felt too tired to weep. I wasn’t quite the same Tommy that I’d been that morning. The man who shares my name, and the chaos he wrought on my city, had turned a dial in me a little further than it had been turned before. 

I knew that I would have more days like this. In the midst of my discomfort, sadness, hope, and fear, I knew that I was supposed to be there, holding my soggy “Jesus was a refugee” sign, shivering in my damp clothes, and praying under my breath. I knew that I needed to gather other reluctant protestors alongside me, holding their own soggy signs and praying their own prayers. 

And I also knew that there was a better way to carry this fragile message of unity in our increasingly fragile land and increasingly fragile time. As a half-British, half-South African man, I’ve had the privilege of growing up with the stories of the anti-apartheid movement, stories which steward the hard-earned truth that defiant, tenacious, persistent love is the only antidote to hatred, misinformation and fear. As Desmond Tutu once said, “when we can accept both our humanity and the perpetrator’s we can write a new story”. Saturday left me feeling that we desperately need a new story, and that requires us to look beyond the swaying horses and see one another clearly. 

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