Beyond Sunday Smiles: When Faith Performance Kills Faith

I lied in church last Sunday.

Not intentionally, mind you. But when Sister Janet asked how I was doing in that sweet, caring way she has, I automatically responded, "Blessed and grateful!" while inside I was wrestling with doubt, exhaustion, and honestly wondering if God was even listening to my prayers anymore.

Sound familiar?

I've been doing this faith thing for years now, both as someone sitting in the pews and someone counseling others who do the same Sunday shuffle. And I've got to tell you something that might make you uncomfortable: we're killing each other with kindness and fake smiles.

The Sunday Morning Masquerade

Let me paint you a picture from my own life. Three weeks ago, I was going through one of those seasons where prayer felt like talking to the ceiling, my writing was hitting a wall and I just couldn't concentrate, and I was questioning whether I was even cut out for ministry. But come Sunday morning, there I was in the lobby, shaking hands and asking everyone how they were doing.

"Great! God is so good!" "Blessed beyond measure!" "Living the dream!"

Meanwhile, I knew for a fact that at least three of those people were dealing with serious stuff. Sarah's husband had just been diagnosed with early-onset dementia. Mike's business was three months behind on rent. Lisa's daughter's grades were starting to slip, and Lisa didn't know what to do.

But we all played the game. We all performed.

And here's what really gets me: I'm a counselor. I spend my week listening to people pour out their real stories, their actual pain, their honest struggles with God. Then Sunday comes, and we all pretend like none of that exists the moment we walk through those church doors.

Why We Keep Lying to Each Other

I get it. I really do. There's this unspoken pressure in church culture that says faith equals having it all together. Doubt means you're not trusting God enough. Depression means you're not grateful enough. Marriage problems mean you're not submitting enough or leading enough or praying enough.

So we learn the language. We master the spiritual-speak. Instead of "I'm depressed," we say "I'm going through a season." Instead of "I'm angry at God," we say "I'm learning to trust His timing." Instead of "My faith is hanging by a thread," we say "God is stretching me."

I've done it. You've done it. We've all done it.

Last month, I had a guy in my office—a deacon, no less—break down crying because he'd been pretending his marriage was solid for three years while it was actually falling apart. His wife had been having an affair, but he couldn't tell anyone at church because "deacons' families are supposed to be examples."

The man was dying inside, but every Sunday he stood up there with his fake smile, asking others how their walk with the Lord was going.

The Real Cost of Fake Faith

Here's what I've learned sitting across from hundreds of people who are tired of performing: when we can't be real about our struggles, we can't experience real community. And when we can't experience real community, our faith starts to feel like a solo act that we're failing at miserably.

I think about Maria, who sat in church for two years battling severe postpartum depression while everyone told her how "blessed" she was to have such a beautiful baby. She heard sermon after sermon about the "joy of the Lord" while feeling like she was drowning. Nobody knew to throw her a lifeline because she never told them she was going under.

Or David, whose son came out as gay, and instead of finding support in his church family, he felt like he had to keep it secret because of all the political rhetoric around "biblical families." He's been carrying that weight alone for three years now, sitting in the same pew every Sunday, pretending his biggest prayer burden doesn't exist.

These aren't isolated cases. My counseling practice is full of people who are spiritually exhausted from trying to live up to some impossible standard of constant faith and perpetual gratitude.

Jesus Didn't Sign Up for This

You know what really gets me? Jesus spent most of His time with people who couldn't get their act together. Tax collectors who were stealing from their neighbors. Women caught in adultery. Guys who couldn't stay awake during prayer meetings. Disciples who argued about who was the greatest while Jesus was talking about dying.

And He loved them. Not their potential. Not who they could become if they tried harder. He loved them as they were, mess and all.

But somehow, we've created a culture where bringing your mess to church feels like the last thing you should do. We've turned our sanctuaries into performance halls instead of emergency rooms.

I was talking to a friend about this the other night, and they said something that stopped me cold: "Mark, if people can't be real at church, where can they be real?"

Good question.

What It Looks Like When We Stop Performing

I'm not saying we should turn every Sunday service into a therapy session. But what if we created space for people to be human?

What if, when someone asks how you're doing, you could say, "Honestly, I'm struggling right now, but I'm still here"? What if that response was met with genuine care instead of spiritual platitudes?

I started experimenting with this in my own life. A few weeks ago, when someone asked how I was doing, I said, "You know, I'm going through a tough season right now. Some days my faith feels strong, other days I'm just hanging on. But I'm grateful for this community."

You know what happened? Three different people came up to me later and said, "Thank you for being honest. I thought I was the only one who felt that way sometimes."

That's when it hit me: our honesty gives other people permission to be honest too.

The Permission to Be Human

Look, I'm not writing this from some mountaintop of spiritual maturity. I'm writing this from the valley, same as you. Some days I trust God completely, other days I wonder if He's paying attention. Some days prayer feels like breathing, other days it feels like work.

And you know what? I think that's normal. I think that's human. I think that's exactly what faith is supposed to look like this side of heaven.

We're not supposed to have it all figured out. We're supposed to be people who need a Savior—not just initially, but daily. We're supposed to be people who lean on each other, who carry each other's burdens, who show up for each other when faith feels impossible.

But we can't do any of that if we're all pretending we don't need it.

A Different Kind of Sunday Morning

So here's my challenge—to myself as much as anyone reading this: What if we stopped performing our faith and started living it? What if we brought our real selves to church instead of our Sunday selves?

What if we created a community where someone could say, "I'm really struggling with doubt right now," and instead of getting a lecture about trusting God, they got a hug and an invitation to coffee?

What if we made room for the messy, complicated, beautiful reality of what it actually looks like to follow Jesus in a broken world?

I think we'd find something we've been missing: authentic community. Real faith. The kind of love that doesn't require a mask.

And maybe, just maybe, we'd discover that God loves our real stories a whole lot more than our performed ones.

The Gospel isn't about becoming people who don't need grace. It's about becoming people who know we do—and finding freedom in that truth.

So next Sunday, when someone asks how you're doing, maybe try telling them. Not everything, not all at once, but something real. Something true.

Because beyond our Sunday smiles is where the real faith lives. Messy, honest, and more beautiful than any performance we could ever put on.

I'm still figuring this out, same as you. But I'm done pretending I've got it all together.

How about you?