Christianity: It Ain’t About the Actors—It’s About the Extras.

A message to Believers…

So I’ve been doing some thinking. And I’ve come to a realization that might sound simple, but it cuts deep:

Being Christian is not an act.

Let me explain.

You’ve seen the type. They’re in the church lobby, suited up, hands lifted, “Oh hey Brother John, God bless you Sister Mary.” They’ve got the church tone, the church walk, the church vocabulary. It’s a full performance.

Then service ends, and they go to the restaurant with their holy hangover still dripping from their words. And they treat the waiter like they’re unworthy of eye contact. Because apparently, servers don’t get the same “grace” that got shouted about an hour ago.

Then they go home, let the mask drop, and return to default: gossip, judgment, bitterness, pettiness. All the stuff the suit was hiding. They’re not transformed. They’re just tired actors playing a Sunday role.

But see, here’s the twist that hit me:

Christianity isn’t about the actors. It’s about the extras.

The actors want the spotlight. They want the script. They want to be seen as righteous.

But the extras? We know we’re background material.

We know our bodies fall short of the glory of God by simply existing.

We don’t try to look holy—we’re just trying to survive on grace.

We’re not acting like we’re good. We’re trusting that God is.

I don’t play pretend. I’m an extra in the story of salvation, not the star of the show.

I cuss sometimes. I say what I mean, and I mean what I say.

I judge people—don’t we all? But I’ve learned that judgment isn’t about what you think of someone. It’s about how you treat them based on what you think.

And I can have a blunt opinion of you and still choose to love you anyway.

That’s not hypocrisy. That’s growth.

I’m not righteous because of how well I hide my flaws.

I’m covered in this suit of sin, and there’s no point in putting a suit over the suit.

Trying not to sin doesn’t make me righteous.

Knowing I’m already sinful and clinging to grace anyway? That’s where the power is.

Because grace isn’t a reward.

It’s not a pat on the back for doing good.

It’s unmerited favor—fuel for the journey, power to keep going, the reason I don’t collapse under the weight of myself.

That’s why I don’t worry about being bad—because I already am.

That’s why I seek grace, absorb it like oxygen, because it’s the only thing that transforms this wretched flesh into something that can love, serve, forgive, endure, believe.

So when I go to church, I don’t put on a performance.

When I go to the restaurant, I don’t bark at the waiter.

And when I get home, I don’t return to fake.

I just be.

Me—flawed, aware, and held together by mercy.

Me—basking in grace, not earning it.

Because real Christianity doesn’t need a costume change.

It just needs a heart that refuses to fake the faith.