Under Represented

I. Introduction: The Limits of Perspective

What if the greatest distortions in our understanding of the world don’t come from what we see—but from what we don’t?

We live in an age of media saturation, where stories flicker across our screens faster than we can digest them. Television, film, and digital platforms offer more content than ever before. It’s easy to assume that with so many voices, so many shows, and so many perspectives, the world must finally be seeing itself clearly. But is that true?

Let’s suppose you’re watching a new series—something trendy, critically acclaimed, “diverse.” You notice the array of characters: vibrant, varied, and supposedly inclusive. But then, you realize something—or rather, someone—is missing. Not just a face, but a way of being. A kind of person who exists in the real world, yet seems to be invisible on screen. This happened to me when I noticed the near-total absence of intellectual, loving Christians in mainstream media. What I saw instead were cartoons—exaggerations, strawmen, and occasionally outright ridicule. At first, I thought: “Why this group?” Then I asked the deeper question: “What else am I not seeing?”

This post is about that journey—from noticing one absence, to discovering many. It’s about how our identities shape what we notice, and how easy it is to miss the stories we’re not emotionally invested in. As the character Data in Star Trek: The Next Generation once had to explain, sensors can only detect what they’re calibrated to recognize. The same might be true of our cultural perception.

This isn’t about victimhood or cancellation. It’s about clarity. About re-tuning our internal sensors—not just to what’s loud and obvious, but to what’s subtly missing. Because absence speaks. And what it tells us, if we’re willing to listen, is that our view of reality might be narrower than we think.

II. Initial Observations: Intellectual Christianity in Media

It began with a hunch—a subtle dissonance between lived reality and what I saw on screen. While watching yet another popular sitcom, I found myself wincing at the portrayal of a Christian character. She was a familiar type: dogmatic, naive, often the butt of the joke. You’ve probably seen her too—Sheldon’s mother in The Big Bang Theory, for instance. A character who, while not overtly cruel, is clearly meant to embody the irrational, anti-intellectual side of faith. She is simple, superstitious, and largely exists to highlight Sheldon’s scientific superiority. It’s played for laughs, but the laughter has a target.

At first, this felt like a specific grievance. I thought: Why are Christians—especially thoughtful, compassionate ones—so often misrepresented or absent altogether in media? Where are the C.S. Lewises and the Dorothy Days? Where are the quiet mentors, the curious believers, the morally serious skeptics who hold to faith without forsaking reason? They exist in real life—just not, it seems, in fiction.

To be clear, I’m not arguing that media must promote a particular worldview. But when one group is consistently caricatured or erased, it distorts public perception. Christianity, especially in its more reflective and philosophical expressions, has produced an extraordinary lineage of thinkers—Augustine, Kierkegaard, William Lane Craig, Nancy Pearcey, JP Moreland, Dallas Willard, N.T. Wright, Os Guinness, John Lennox, Alister McGrath, Peter Kreeft (and so many more). These figures engage deeply with science, ethics, literature, and the human condition. Yet in mainstream narratives, the Christian is more often depicted as a moralistic scold, a conspiracy theorist, or a punchline.

Some might argue, “Well, fundamentalists make headlines—they’re the loud ones.” Fair. But media should be about storytelling, not just reporting. If we can imagine sentient raccoons and multiversal battles, surely we can imagine a Christian who reads Kierkegaard and volunteers at a shelter.

One rare exception stands out: Shepherd Book from Firefly. A preacher with a mysterious past, he defies easy categorization. He is kind but deadly, moral but complicated, and perhaps most importantly, he is respected by those around him—even by the atheist captain, Malcolm Reynolds. Book is a breath of fresh air in a media landscape that too often reduces faith to either fanaticism or folly.

This initial observation—that loving, intellectual Christians are misrepresented or missing—opened the door to a deeper question. If I could see the absence of people like me, what about the people I’m not naturally attuned to notice?

III. Expanding the Lens: Research Unveils a Larger Pattern

What began as a personal observation quickly widened into something more complex—and more troubling. With a little research, it became clear that the misrepresentation of intellectual Christians wasn’t an isolated phenomenon. It was part of a broader pattern: a media landscape filled with distorted mirrors, funhouse reflections of entire communities.

Let’s suppose you gather data on who appears in film and television. You might find that LGBTQ+ individuals are increasingly visible—but when you look closer, the picture changes. White gay men often dominate the narrative, while queer people of color, bisexual individuals, and especially transgender characters remain rare or are boxed into narrow, stereotypical roles. According to recent reports, LGBTQ+ characters are present in only about a quarter of top TV shows—and even then, they’re often sidekicks, tragic figures, or stylized comic relief. Visibility isn’t the same as representation.

Race and ethnicity reveal similar gaps. Despite growing awareness, white actors still occupy a disproportionate number of lead roles in both film and television. Latino, Asian, Indigenous, and Middle Eastern characters remain underrepresented—and when they do appear, they often carry the burden of cliché: the gang member, the mystic, the tech genius, the terrorist. Behind the camera, the disparities are even starker. Who tells the story often determines how it’s told.

Religious minorities face a double bind. Muslims, for example, appear in less than 2% of top-grossing films—even though nearly one in four people on the planet practices Islam. When they do appear, it’s often in the context of conflict or extremism. Hindu and Buddhist characters are rare and typically portrayed through the lens of exoticism, mysticism, or comic misunderstanding. Meanwhile, secular characters are often presented as emotionally detached or spiritually hollow. It’s as if we’re telling only a few chapters of a much longer human story.

And then there’s disability. In 2022, only 2.9% of characters in major films had a disability, most of them played by able-bodied actors. When disabled characters are represented, they are frequently either “inspirational” (read: suffering nobly for the able-bodied audience) or tragic figures. Rarely are they just people—flawed, complex, funny, ordinary.

The deeper I looked, the more I realized: I had only noticed the gap that touched my identity. Others, invisible to me, had been living in the gaps all along.

We are, all of us, swimming in narratives. Some of us float effortlessly; others are fighting undertows we don’t even recognize. The problem isn’t just numerical representation—it’s narrative reduction. People become shorthand. Identities collapse into templates. And the resulting stories may entertain, but they often fail to illuminate.

In The Matrix, Neo learns that his reality is a manufactured illusion. Once awakened, he sees the code behind the world. That’s what this research felt like—seeing the code, the scaffolding beneath the glossy surface. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

And here’s where the insight deepened into something more uncomfortable: media is not reality. Well, no duh, you might say. Of course we all know that. But do we really? Intellectually, yes—we’re aware that shows are scripted, that characters are fictional, that sets are make-believe. Yet our brains don’t process that truth 100% of the time, especially not when we’re emotionally invested or passively consuming content. Like bloated tics feeding off the back of the media monster, we absorb story after story, scene after scene, without interrogating what’s missing or distorted. We tell ourselves we know it’s fiction, yet we often behave as if it’s truth. We judge people we meet through lenses shaped by archetypes we’ve seen on screen. We form opinions about entire groups based on recurring tropes. In a way, we’re not just watching stories—we’re letting them write parts of us.

IV. The Real Cost: Reinforcing Bias and Division

Representation matters—but not just in headcounts. It’s not enough to tally how many Black, queer, disabled, Muslim, or Christian characters appear on screen. The deeper issue is how they are portrayed, who gets to shape those portrayals, and what those portrayals reinforce in the minds of viewers. Because stories are not neutral. They’re not just entertainment. They are moral scaffolding, cultural maps, and subtle whispers about who matters, who belongs, and who should be feared, mocked, or pitied.

Let’s suppose you grow up watching media where every lawyer is slick and amoral, every trans person is a tragic victim or a punchline, every Muslim character is tied to violence, and every Christian is a self-righteous bigot. You might not consciously believe these are universal truths. But unconsciously, these patterns sink in. You begin to associate certain traits with certain groups—not because you’ve experienced them firsthand, but because your brain, like all brains, leans on what psychologists call the availability heuristic. We estimate the likelihood of events based on how easily examples come to mind. And what comes to mind most easily? The stories we consume. Especially the vivid, emotional, stereotype-laden ones.

This is where narrative authority comes into play. Who gets to tell the story? Who gets to be the hero? For decades, the answer has been the same few voices—overwhelmingly white, male, wealthy, and secular—shaping narratives for a global audience. They decide whose stories get greenlit, whose identities are explored with nuance, and whose are flattened into digestible tropes. When media gatekeepers control the narrative lens, they don’t just reflect society—they steer it.

And here’s the part we’re reluctant to admit: the media monster knows this. It’s not some innocent creator of entertainment, naively crafting tales. No, this is a multi-headed hydra—some of its heads are driven by clicks and dollars, others by ideology, still others by sheer inertia. Some heads are noble, genuinely seeking justice or diversity; others are cynical, using social causes as branding tools. But together, they wield enormous power—not to inform our opinions, but to shape them. The goal isn’t always to tell the truth. Often, it’s to provoke, to please advertisers, to spark viral engagement, or to push a narrative that aligns with certain worldviews. This isn’t a grand conspiracy. It’s worse: it’s systemic, invisible, and baked into our cultural software.

In The Matrix, Morpheus tells Neo that the world he knows is a simulated dream, crafted to keep him compliant. That simulation worked not because it was overtly false, but because it was plausible enough to lull the mind into acceptance. That’s what happens when we see only one version of reality—one story about a group, told over and over until even the exceptions feel like deviations. The cost of this isn’t just misinformation. It’s division. It’s suspicion. It’s the erosion of empathy. And most dangerously, it’s the quiet internalization of lies about ourselves and others.

When I first noticed the lack of intellectual Christians in media, I thought I had spotted a unique oversight. But I’ll admit something uncomfortable: part of what drove that insight was a perception that LGBTQ+ representation had become overabundant. It felt like every show had a token queer character, and I wondered if the pendulum had swung too far. So I did what any truth-seeker should—I dug deeper. What I found surprised me. Yes, LGBTQ+ characters are more visible than ever, but many are portrayed through narrow lenses—stylized, simplified, often symbolic. Real LGBTQ+ lives, with all their complexity, remain elusive. The same is true for Muslims, who are frequently reduced to tropes of conflict or exoticism. These aren’t just missing portrayals—they’re distorted ones. And I had unknowingly accepted some of those distortions. I had fallen for the illusion that visibility equals authenticity. It was humbling to realize that my sense of being misrepresented wasn’t unique. Others had been seeing through funhouse mirrors long before I noticed mine.

V. Comedy: The Last Bastion of Stereotype?

Comedy lives in the tension between truth and exaggeration. It pokes, prods, and inflates the ordinary until it becomes absurd—and sometimes painfully honest. But increasingly, comedy finds itself caught in a cultural crossfire. Is it still safe to laugh? And more importantly, at what and at whom?

Some of the most iconic comedic moments in film and television were built on stereotypes. Think of Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles, which rode into town on a fart joke but left us asking real questions about racism and greed. Or In Living Color, which lampooned gay culture, racial dynamics, and gender identity in ways that wouldn’t air on most networks today. These comedies worked not because they created stereotypes—but because they exposed them. The laughs came from recognition: the audience had to already be in on the joke for it to land. That’s the paradox of comedy—it only works when there’s shared narrative terrain.

And that’s precisely the danger. Because stereotypes are shortcuts. They let us laugh without thinking, nod without questioning. As Daniel Kahneman explains in Thinking, Fast and Slow, our brains operate using two systems: System 1, which is fast, intuitive, and emotional; and System 2, which is slow, deliberate, and analytical. Comedy mostly dances in the realm of System 1. It’s quick. It’s visceral. But that ease comes at a cost. We rarely pause to ask: Why is this funny? What does it assume about the world—or about people?

Let’s suppose you watch a sitcom where the gay character is flamboyant, the Asian character is the nerd, the Black character is the sassy best friend. You laugh—because those archetypes have been coded into our cultural syntax. You recognize the rhythm, the punchline, the trope. But what happens when that joke becomes the only story you hear? Or worse, when your brain starts associating that character with real people?

Interestingly, the effect of these stereotypes is often short-circuited when we know someone personally in the stereotyped group. That’s System 2 kicking in. Our lived relationships disrupt the lazy narratives. We don’t think of our thoughtful Muslim coworker as a terrorist. We don’t think of our bisexual friend as confused. We don’t reduce our churchgoing neighbor to Ned Flanders. Why? Because our brains know better—because experience demands nuance. Comedy doesn’t always allow for that.

So here’s the question: can comedy evolve to be sharp without being cruel? Can it still tell the truth, but do so without reducing people to their most exaggerated traits? It’s possible. Shows like The Good Place and Brooklyn Nine-Nine have begun to explore that terrain—smart, funny, inclusive, and still genuinely hilarious. The humor comes not from punching down, but from leaning in—to humanity, to absurdity, to the quirks that unite rather than divide.

Maybe the challenge isn’t to make comedy safe. Maybe it’s to make it smarter. And maybe that starts with the audience. With us. Choosing not to let System 1 run the whole show, but inviting System 2 to sit in on the joke—and ask a few questions.

VI. A Mirror for All of Us: Personal Bias and Unseen Silences

This journey through representation has not just been about what I see on screen—it’s also about what I fail to see, and why. It’s a mirror. And, like most mirrors, it doesn’t always flatter.

The truth is, we all bring personal bias to what we consume. Our identities—our background, values, beliefs, communities—act like filters. They shape which absences we notice and which ones we overlook. I noticed the caricatures of Christians because I identify with them. I didn’t immediately notice the absence or distortion of bisexual or Muslim characters, not because I don’t care, but because I wasn’t tuned in. It wasn’t my story—until I chose to look more closely.

This is where System 1, as Daniel Kahneman would describe it, does us no favors. Fast, automatic, intuitive—it helps us navigate the world efficiently. But when left unchecked, it locks us into stereotypes, simplifies complexity, and smooths over ethical discomforts. If we want to truly understand others—not just laugh at or pity them—we have to activate System 2. Slow thinking. Reflection. Listening. Research. Asking uncomfortable questions. Unlearning.

And here’s what I found when I did that: in-group/out-group bias is stubborn. Psychologically, we tend to favor those we see as “us” and dismiss or stereotype those we see as “them.” It’s a survival instinct, but it’s maladaptive in a complex, pluralistic society. Add selective attention to the mix, and you’ve got a recipe for a distorted worldview. We see what aligns with our expectations, and we filter out what doesn’t. It’s not malice. It’s momentum.

So I offer this question to readers, as I have to myself: Who are you not seeing? Whose stories have been reduced in your mind to fragments and tropes? Whose humanity has been edited out—not by intention, but by omission?

Because here’s the heart of the matter: we cannot love people—our neighbor, or even our enemy—with agape love if we cannot truly see them. Not the image we’ve absorbed from television. Not the caricature. Not the category. But the real, flawed, astonishingly unique person made in the image of God or, if you prefer, a bearer of dignity simply by virtue of existing.

Love demands vision. And vision requires work. Every person’s story is different—distinct, layered, and irreducibly complex. No two are the same, and no stereotype, however artfully constructed, can do justice to the fullness of a real human life. To truly see someone, we must know them. And to know them, we can’t rely on media, even when it’s well-intentioned. We have to do the hard, sometimes uncomfortable work of listening, learning, and engaging. That means stepping outside curated narratives, asking questions, building relationships, and sitting long enough with someone’s story to see it in its fullness—not as a plot device, but as a living narrative written in real time. That is the only way love—true, agape love—can take root.

VIII. Conclusion: Toward a More Honest Imagination

Representation isn’t about political correctness. It’s about truth. About whether the stories we tell reflect the complex, contradictory, beautiful mess that is the human experience—or whether they flatten it into caricature for the sake of convenience, ideology, or profit.

The real work isn’t in rewriting scripts—it’s in rewiring souls. Because this isn’t just a media problem. It’s a human one. The stories we tell reflect what we value, but they also shape what we become. If we consume only the shallow, the biased, the exaggerated, then our imaginations shrink. And when imagination shrinks, so does empathy.

So let’s be honest: we need a little soul searching. We need to lead with love—not the vague, squishy kind, but the hard, specific love that pays attention. The kind that listens before it judges. The kind that looks people in the eyes and says, “You matter, not because you’re like me, but because you are.”

And maybe, just maybe, we also need to cut back on the Slurm. Because like Fry in Futurama, we’ve been guzzling a cultural product that’s addictive, easy, and vaguely revolting once you realize where it comes from. We can’t stop consuming—but we can choose better. We can seek out richer stories, build relationships outside our echo chambers, and train our imaginations to delight in nuance rather than simplicity.

As Tolkien once said, fairy tales are not merely for escape—but for recovery, consolation, and seeing truth through a different lens. That’s what we need now: not just more representation, but a more honest imagination—one that sees others not as threats or types or allies, but as whole, holy stories in themselves.

Questions for the Curious and the Brave

If this journey has stirred something in you—a recognition, a discomfort, a flash of clarity—don’t let it pass too quickly. Sit with it. Let it do its work. This isn’t about guilt or defensiveness. It’s about awareness. About choosing to become the kind of person who sees more clearly and loves more fully.

Here are a few questions worth lingering over:

• When you think of people from a group you don’t belong to—religious, ethnic, sexual, political—what images or narratives come to mind? Where did those come from?
• Can you recall a time when you realized you had misjudged someone? What corrected your view?
• What groups or perspectives do you rarely see represented in the media you consume? Do you notice their absence?
• Are there people in your life who challenge a stereotype you’ve seen on screen? How does knowing them personally affect your perception of others in that group?
• When was the last time you asked someone, “What’s your story?”—and then really listened?
• What stories have most shaped your view of the world? Are they serving your growth… or your comfort?

These aren’t easy questions. But then, nothing worthwhile ever is. They are the kinds of questions that form the beginning of wisdom—the kind that invite you to look again, to look deeper, and perhaps most importantly, to look with love.

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Posts | References

References

• Religious Landscape Study https://www.pewresearch.org/religious-landscape-study/
• Minorities in Media in the U.S. – statistics & facts https://www.statista.com/topics/3342/minorities-in-media/
• Minority Representation in The Media, Live Oak Communication, https://www.liveoakcommunications.com/post/minority-representation-in-the-media
• Presence vs. representation: Report breaks down LGBTQ visibility on TV https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/presence-vs-representation-report-breaks-down-lgbtq-visibility-tv-n1251153
• LGBTQ media in the U.S. – statistics & facts https://www.statista.com/topics/5324/lgbtq-media-in-the-us/
• LGBT+ Representation in the Media, Involve, https://www.involvepeople.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/LGBT-In-The-Media-Report.pdf
• Race/Ethnicity, Annenberg Inclusion Initiative, USC Annenberg, https://annenberg.usc.edu/research/annenberg-inclusion-initiative/raceethnicity

Excerpt

Media shapes how we see others—but often through distortion or omission. This post explores how bias, stereotypes, and selective storytelling impact our understanding of people unlike us. Real love begins with truly seeing. To see clearly, we must question the stories we consume—and the shortcuts our minds prefer.

Updated 2-10-2025