On May 17th in Washington, DC, there will be a public Bible reading featuring President Trump and other administration officials. I support Bible reading, but I sense this event isn’t rooted in spirituality, but something darker. Religion, faith, and spirituality are about more than words; they are about real transformation—when words become life and truly sustain.
This event is a striking example of the heresy of performative religion, in which faith is wielded for show rather than for genuine transformation.
Performative religion can be understood as the outward display of faith primarily for the sake of being seen, affirmed, or approved by others rather than as a genuine expression of inward transformation. It is religion practiced as presentation rather than participation, where appearance takes precedence over authenticity, and visibility becomes more important than integrity.
At its core, performative religion undermines faith’s true purpose, to transform.
It is the act of appearing faithful without substance—a public display versus true private transformation. Religion, then, becomes theater: carefully curated, outwardly impressive, but disconnected from humility, repentance, and love.
And if we are honest, it is not a new problem.
The temptation to perform righteousness rather than embody it runs throughout the history of faith. It is as old as the human desire to be seen, to be approved, to be regarded as holy without doing the hard and often hidden work that holiness requires.
Jesus speaks directly to this in the Gospel: “Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them” (Matthew 6:1). That warning is not about public faith itself, after all, faith is meant to be lived in community, but about the motivation behind it. When the desire to be seen overtakes the call to be transformed, something essential is lost.
Performative religion is rooted in that misplaced desire.
It thrives where appearance is valued over authenticity, where words matter more than actions, and where faith is measured by visibility rather than integrity. It is prayer meant to impress rather than connect, charity seeking recognition more than relief, and proclamation of belief unmatched by compassion.
And perhaps most dangerously, it allows us to deceive ourselves.
It is painfully possible to look like a person of faith without being formed by faith, to speak of love and justice without pursuing them, and to speak of humility while quietly cultivating pride.
The prophet Isaiah offers a sharp critique of this kind of religiosity: “This people draw near with their mouths and honor me with their lips, while their hearts are far from me” (Isaiah 29:13). The problem is not the words. The problem is the distance between the words and the heart.
That distance is where performative religion lives. And it is a comfortable place to stay. Because performance is easier than transformation.
Transformation requires honesty about who we are, where we fall short, and how we have failed to love God and neighbor. It requires us to confront our brokenness, to sit with discomfort, and to be open to change. It is slow, often unseen, and rarely applauded.
Performance is immediate and brings quick affirmation, but it only creates the illusion of faithfulness, not the substance or cost of true discipleship.
But performance is an illusion, offering no sustenance or depth. Performative faith cannot carry us through sorrow or hardship, nor deepen our compassion, because it is not rooted in authentic transformation.
True faith is not performative; it is incarnational.
It is lived out in ordinary moments, often unseen and unrecognized—in quiet kindness, in forgiving when resentment is easier, and in the willingness to listen, serve, and accompany another in pain.
These are not dramatic acts. They do not draw attention. But they are real. And that is what matters.
A line often attributed to Aristotle states, “We are what we repeatedly do.” Faith is not defined by our public words but by what we do consistently, especially when unnoticed.
This is why the call of the Gospel is so often inward before it is outward.
“Go into your room, shut the door, and pray to your Father in secret” (Matthew 6:6). In hiddenness, there is no audience, no performance—just us before God.
And that is where real faith begins. Not in what is seen, but in what is true.
This is not to say public expressions of faith are suspect. They have their place, but must come from a life being shaped and transformed.
Otherwise, they become hollow. And hollow faith does not heal the world.
The world does not need more visible religion, but authentic faith. It needs people whose actions align with their words, willing to quietly grow in compassion, justice, and love.
In a culture that increasingly rewards visibility and performance, this kind of faith may seem unimpressive. But it is, in fact, revolutionary.
It resists being seen. It chooses depth over display, integrity over image, and transformation over performance.
It reflects something true about God—a God not concerned with appearances, but with the heart. A God who calls us not to perform, but to become.
And that is the invitation before us. To move beyond the surface. To let go of the need to be seen. To embrace a faith that is real, even when it is hidden.
Because in the end, it is not the performance that matters—it is the depth and authenticity of transformative faith.
