A teacher in a small-town Christian school asked his junior high students to open their Bibles for their usual lesson. The teacher ignored the muffled sighs and started reading James 4:13-15:

Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.”

After reading, the teacher told of his parents’ desire to become missionaries, until they discovered they both had cancer. His point was that even our best ideas are altered by God’s sovereignty. Little did he know he would actually demonstrate his own point. He meant to give a well thought-out Bible lesson with appropriate illustrations. The lesson was designed to start and finish on time, like a sermon that ends by noon for the football game. Yet something totally unplanned happened.

As he shared about his parents’ illnesses, his own grief welled up like a mighty, churning, overflowing river and spilled into the room. There he stood, weeping, unable to hold back a torrent of tears. Twenty eighth-graders sat frozen in their seats, completely absorbed in the moment. Not a desk creaked. No one even dared to swallow.

Here was a man who always spoke with carefully measured words and always exercised self-control, even in heated moments of frustration. Before their very eyes, in an unstaged moment, they saw him transformed into a human being, a man consumed with the thought that he might abruptly lose his beloved parents. They saw a man wrestling with doubt that a loving God would let cancer ravage two people with their hearts set on serving Him — as missionaries, no less. Here was a man in a moment of confusion about God’s ways. The situation held their interest, but not as people who flock to the scene of an accident to gawk at tragedy. They were magnetically drawn to the moment because someone was being real.

For the teacher it felt like an embarrassing mistake. But life is a live act and doesn’t allow for any rewinding or editing. To his relief, it was the end of the day, and the students would need to head for the bus. They, however, did not want to tidy up this moment of authenticity. Their initial indifference turned into attraction, not repulsion. They would never again mindlessly pigeonhole their teacher as a formal, fake adult. Many students responded with heartfelt notes. One girl baked him cookies over the weekend. Something surprisingly vital had happened here. So why is there an urge to quickly conceal anything real?

As a youth, I attended church every Sunday, but the sermon I remember best was when our minister spoke candidly about his personal crisis of faith. This sermon was the only remotely real moment of a predictable church experience. I longed for adults to show this kind of transparency, but found they rarely do so. Even so, as I too became an adult, the same tendency to resist being real entrapped me.

As Christian adults, we are called to live by high standards, yet we forget to acknowledge that the Christian life is a process. We think that children and teenagers in the process of maturing can have their ups and downs — but as adults, we should know better. When our impurities rise to the surface we quickly learn the art of concealment. We justify our choices with the idea that if we pretend to look like Christ, we will be good role models for our children. We fear that those around us would stumble if they knew our failures. A world of pretext develops, insidiously creeping into every aspect of our lives and relationships. As a result, we would rather look good than be truly known by others.

Authenticity, or being genuine in who we are — with all our qualities and struggles — is not incompatible with godliness. In fact, one of the most compelling qualities of Jesus Christ was His authentic humanness. As author Mike Mason says, “The profound physicality of Jesus sets Him apart. The resurrection and the ascension of Christ … would have no meaning if He had not done the commoner things — walking, talking, working, struggling, rubbing shoulders with real people” (Practicing the Presence of People, italics mine).

For example, Mary and Martha were grieving the death of their brother, Lazarus, because Jesus delayed His arrival. Jesus — who already knew the power of God to raise Lazarus from the dead — still entered into the human experience and wept.
In the garden of Gethsemane, Jesus knew He was facing the cross. Though He was without sin, He showed how real His struggle on earth was when He prayed, “Let this cup pass from Me.” He identifies with us in our humanity. We, on the other hand, tend to deny our humanity as unspiritual.

Authenticity is the freedom to say, “I am what I am.” As Dag Hammarskjöld said in his book Markings, “He who has placed himself in God’s hand stands free vis-à-vis men: He is entirely at his ease with them, because he has granted them the right to judge.” Authenticity is being honest with oneself and others about unresolved struggles, spiritual questions, besetting sins, failures and true feelings. Character qualities like the fruit of the Spirit enhance our relationships and foster maturity. Why pretend we are something we’re not? When we let others in on the truth, it sets them free to do the same, opening the door to learning and dialogue.

Pastor James Ryle once said that the best way to live is when you have nothing to hide, nothing to lose, nothing to fear and nothing to prove. This fully describes authenticity in the Christian life. It also describes Jesus Christ. Let it be our goal to be like Him in this way.