Pettiness in the Pews: When Faith Becomes a Performance

+JMJ+ There’s a sad, quiet kind of brokenness that sometimes plays out in church halls, prayer groups, and ministries. It’s not always loud or obvious, but it’s real and it’s ugly.

We’re not here to be impressive. We’re here to be holy.

It looks something like this:

A woman walks into Bible study. She smiles and says hello. She’s warm and open and maybe a little different. Regardless, she’s trying to belong and she’s trying to grow in her faith.

Another woman barely looks up. She forces a smile then immediately turns to whisper something to the friend beside her. A laugh follows. You know the kind I’m talking about—the kind that’s meant to exclude. The first woman feels it, but she doesn’t say anything. She quietly takes her seat.

Week after week, she keeps showing up. She remains kind and Christlike. Meanwhile, she contends with the same cold glances, the subtle digs, the rolling eyes, the clique behavior, and the performative posts online.

Let’s be honest: for some, church life is a competition and a popularity contest more than anything else.

Who’s the closest to the priests.

Who’s in charge.

Who always knows what’s going on before anyone else.

Who has their name in every bulletin and flyer, every committee, every event.

Who can steer every conversation, dominate every meeting, insert themselves into every ministry (even when no one asked).

The loudest irony is that sometimes the ones most obsessed with being “in” are the ones least interested in actually living the faith. They’re too busy posturing and managing their image. They’re too busy using the Church as a platform for their own ego.

This kind of toxic behavior is not about worship. It’s about being seen. It’s not about community. It’s about having as much control as possible.

Yes, some people have very strong personalities. Sometimes, we clash with another. We don’t always click. That’s human and that’s okay. But the need to win at church—to outshine, outmaneuver, out-influence—is a sickness of the soul, and it is absolutely not of God.

The Gospel is not a game. It’s a cross to carry.

If your version of faith is fueled by jealousy, competition, the need to have your say in every part of parish life, or the need to always be right, then maybe it’s time to bring that to God.

The jealousy, the competition, the need to be seen, to be right, to be in control…

none of that is love.

You can’t call yourself a disciple if you’re too proud to serve in silence, too threatened to encourage someone else, and too consumed with status to see the people you’re hurting—to see that you’re hurting Jesus.

Jesus didn’t care who was most important. He cared who was most faithful. Faithfulness doesn’t need a spotlight.

So to the men and women who’ve been on the receiving end of pettiness in the pews, keep going. Keep showing up. Your quiet humility and steady obedience speak louder than anyone’s performance.

If you can take things a step further and pray for the ones hurting you, that will do more than you’ll ever see this side of heaven.

And to the men and women caught up in the race to be the most “involved,” the most admired, the most needed, consider taking a pause.

Ask yourself: Am I actually practicing my faith? Or just performing it?

At the end of the day, God doesn’t care how many events you coordinated, how many people liked your post about helping out at church, how many selfies you’ve taken with the  parish priests or the local bishop, or how many parish trips you’ve been on.

He cares how you treat the man or woman no one else talks to.

He cares about how you treat the people you clash with.

He cares how you love when no one’s watching.

He cares who you are when it’s not about you.

We are not here to be popular or powerful.

The goal isn’t to be the most visible name in the parish. It’s to become a saint.

Oftentimes saints are made in humble silence, in sacrifice, and in the hidden places where only God sees.

So many of the saints knew too well the pain of being disliked, overlooked, and misunderstood.

They were often passed over, mocked, and excluded, not always by strangers, but oftentimes by people inside the Church. Still, they chose love. They chose kindness. They chose God.

Holiness isn’t proven by how high you climb.

It’s revealed by how low you’re willing to go for others and by how faithfully you love even when it costs you something.

That’s the path to sainthood, and it’s open to anyone willing to walk it.