Moving Beyond "I'm Fine”

Developing Communities of Grace

There is a ritual which unfolds every Sunday morning in many churches. As people filter through the church doors, greeting one another with familiar warmth and hugs, the same exchange echoes throughout the buzz: "How are you?" "I'm fine, thanks. And you?" "Oh, I'm fine too." The words roll off our tongues with such ease maintaining the careful distance from the messy realities of our actual lives. It’s a reflex, a habit, our armour. Ok, perhaps some of us are just fine. Perhaps we are just not in the mood, or had a tough morning with the kids. But what if this reflexive "I'm fine" represents more than mere social politeness? What if it's actually hindering our walk with Christ and weakening the very essence of Christian community? When you say it like that it seems serious, yet in some ways it is. Do we have a need to project ok-ness for the fear of judgement? Are we afraid of what people will think, or worse still, share with others?

The truth is, our well-intentioned commitment to spiritual positivity often masks a deeper problem: we've created churches where authenticity feels dangerous and vulnerability seems like weakness.

This article isn't about encouraging endless complaining or transforming Sunday mornings into forcing people to publicly confess their deepest and darkest to the person behind them in church. Rather, it's about rediscovering what Scripture teaches about the transformative power of honest confession, both with God and with one another. I want to examine how the culture of "fine" developed within church life, and how we can go further to foster a deeper community of one-anothering.

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What Is "Fine"?

The commitment to saying "I'm fine" didn't emerge in a vacuum, and it’s not simply a Christian thing. It's built upon layers of social conditioning and assumptions that, while often well-intentioned, create subtle but significant barriers to genuine community. At its foundation lies our culture's deep discomfort with emotional messiness. I say this as an Irish man in a country where true community usually only happens after 4 pints! We've been trained from childhood to offer quick, positive responses to social inquiries. "How are you?" isn't really a question, it's a greeting disguised as concern, expecting nothing more than a brief affirmation that all is well. To respond with actual honesty feels like breaking an unspoken social contract, like showing up to the office in pyjamas. I mean, we didn’t actually want to know how that person was, did we?

Within church culture, this dynamic becomes even more complex. There's an unspoken pressure to appear as if we have it all together. As if admitting struggle somehow signals deficient faith. We fear that confessing our battles with doubt, anxiety, marital tension, or financial stress might cause others to question our spiritual maturity. After all, shouldn't a life surrendered to Christ be marked by peace and joy? Doesn't Scripture promise that all things work together for good? We have multiple coffee cups that attest to this, so it must be true! This theological misunderstanding creates what could be called our “church face.” A carefully curated version of ourselves that projects ok-ness while minimising our struggles. We share testimonies with our friends of answered prayers but rarely speak of seasons when God feels silent. We celebrate God's provision but hesitate to mention our anxiety about paying next month's rent.

The consequences can ripple through our church communities in predictable ways. People sit in pews surrounded by others yet feeling profoundly alone, convinced they're the only ones struggling with depression, marriage difficulties, or questions about faith. I wrote about this last week for those in ministry, but it applies to all in some ways. Opportunities for mutual support evaporate before they can form. Church members suffer in isolation, missing the very encouragement and practical help that the body of Christ is designed to provide. We are called to one-anothering, but very often I hear Christians talk about church being the last place that they would go in a time of struggle. Perhaps most tragically, this culture of "fine" creates a feedback loop that reinforces itself. When everyone appears to have it together, those who are struggling feel even more isolated and abnormal, making them less likely to reach out for help. The silence breeds more silence, and the pretence runs another cycle. Yet, we see clear evidence of public ‘not-fineness’ in the pages of the Bible.

The Bible: People; Warts and All

When we turn to Scripture, we discover a radically different model of spiritual authenticity. The biblical writers didn't shy away from emotional honesty, they elevated it to an art form. Hearts are very firmly on sleeves. Pillows wet with tears. Throats strained from anguished shouts.

Consider the Psalms, that great songbook of faith that forms the heart of our worship. Surely we’ll find upbeat, sugary delight to get us humming into the day?! Yet, here we find David crying out, "How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?" (Psalm 13:1). The author of Psalm 88 goes even further, ending his prayer not with hope but with the stark declaration: "darkness is my closest friend." I’ve yet to see that on a flowery plaque on the wall! These aren't the sanitized prayers of people trying to maintain spiritual appearances, they're the raw cries of people wrestling with God in the midst of real pain.

The prophets, too, modelled this kind of transparency. Elijah, fresh from his dramatic victory over the prophets of Baal, found himself cowering under a broom bush, begging God to take his life. "I have had enough, Lord," he declared. "Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors" (1 Kings 19:4). Again, not one you would normally see on a Christian t-shirt! Rather than condemning this despair, God met Elijah in his darkness with gentle care, providing food, rest, and eventually a new sense of purpose.

But perhaps the most stunning example comes from Jesus Himself. In the Garden of Gethsemane, facing the weight of the cross, Jesus didn't maintain stoic composure with a stiff upper lip. Instead, he told his closest friends, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Matthew 26:38). The Son of God, perfect in every way, chose vulnerability over invincibility, emotional honesty over spiritual posturing. It’s the humanity of Jesus that strikes me most the older I get. He was so vulnerable and yet strong.

This pattern continues through the rest of the New Testament. James instructs believers to "confess your sins to one another and pray for each other so that you may be healed" (James 5:16). Paul encourages the Galatians to "carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2). The early church understood something we've forgotten; spiritual health requires relational honesty. And in many ways, this is terrifying! These passages aren't an add-on to the gospel, they're central to it. They reveal that God doesn't desire our pretence but our authenticity, not our performance but our presence. The invitation of Christianity isn't to have it all together but to bring our brokenness to the One who makes all things new, and to share that with others also.

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The Barriers We Build

Understanding why vulnerability feels so dangerous requires examining the barriers we've constructed, both individually and collectively, against emotional honesty. I also want to acknowledge that we have built these because we’ve been hurt, and I lament that sometimes church hasn’t been the place to share hard things because of our experiences.

Shame stands as perhaps the most formidable obstacle. Many of us as Christians carry an internalised belief that struggle equals spiritual failure, that doubt reveals to others that we have a deficient faith. This shame whispers lies: "If you were really walking with God, you wouldn't feel this anxious." "Strong Christians don't get depressed." "Your marriage problems prove you're not submitting to God's plan." These false messages transform normal human struggles into evidence of spiritual inadequacy. In some cases these might be verbalised from the church, but more often than not they are whispered lies from the devil. This doesn’t make them any less harmful. I was listening to a podcast recently where the person said that just because something isn’t true, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t feel psychologically true to us.

Fear of judgment creates another significant barrier. We worry that others will gossip about our struggles, think less of us, or use our vulnerabilities against us. These concerns aren't entirely unfounded, many have experienced betrayal after sharing deeply. Sometimes the sharing of “prayer points” can be code for a kind of sanctified gossip. Our church communities are made up of broken people, who sometimes fail to handle others' brokenness with the grace they've received. The structure of many of our church gatherings also can works against vulnerability. Larger group settings lack the intimacy necessary for meaningful sharing. In our context, traditional liturgies, while beautiful, don't naturally create space for personal struggles. The emphasis on public ‘performance’, whether in worship, prayer, or preaching, can inadvertently encourage projection over authentic expression. We might think that the person at the front has it all together, when most don’t realise that we don’t. What’s more, the pulpit or music stand can often be the best thing to hide behind.

Time constraints also compound these challenges. In our lightning quick society, conversations rarely extend beyond surface pleasantries. "How are you?" becomes a greeting rather than a genuine inquiry because we lack the margin for deeper engagement. It’s interesting that in the West of Ireland we even blur it into a “Howya” as if shortening the space it takes gives us more time to spend elsewhere! We're rushing to the next commitment, the next obligation, the next item on our endless lists of to-do’s.

Getting Beyond “Fine”

What we discover when we move beyond "I'm fine" is nothing short of transformative, both for our relationship with God and our connections with others. I have experienced this in our family of faith, and as much as I am supposed to be the ‘leader’ I’ve been led in some wonderful ways by the people God has placed around me by His grace. People who have taught me that it’s ok to move beyond ‘fine.’

Honest prayer revolutionizes our spiritual lives. When we bring our real selves to God, our fears, doubts, anger, and confusion, then prayer becomes genuine conversation rather than religious performance. As we teach and model prayer in our churches and families, this is wonderful to demonstrate. Our youngest doesn’t do it as much now as he has grown a bit, but his prayers filled me with such joy. “Lord Jesus, I pray that we would have fun today!” This might seem a bit trite as the prayer of a child, but isn’t fun great? Don’t we think that the One who created the world maybe wants us to have a bit of fun now and again? The Psalms also give us permission to express the full range of human emotion before our Creator, recognising that authentic lament often serves as the deepest form of worship. Sometimes prayers that are incoherent through tears are maybe the one’s that God hears the clearest.

This honesty also cultivates appropriate dependence on grace. When we acknowledge our struggles rather than hiding them, we position ourselves to receive the help we actually need. I am often astounded at how in coming as a baby, Jesus was adopting complete dependence and vulnerability. Mary would have had to burp the One who put stars in their place. That’s insane to me. Paul also discovered this principle in his wrestling with the "thorn in his flesh," learning that God's power is "made perfect in weakness" (2 Corinthians 12:9). Our vulnerabilities become pathways to experiencing true strength, because strength is not about being strong, but being comfortable in weakness. Perhaps counterintuitively then, embracing our struggles often deepens rather than diminishes our faith. James writes that trials "develop perseverance" and that perseverance leads to maturity (James 1:2-4). But this transformation requires honest engagement with difficulty, not denial of it. Faith muscles grow stronger when exercised against real resistance, not imaginary weights.

Community As It Was Meant To Be

Authenticity doesn't just change our individual spiritual lives, it also transforms Christian community. When people begin sharing honestly, trust multiplies exponentially. I have a friend who is so disarming with his openness about how God has showed him grace. Feeling the initial cringe when someone reveals something deep and dark is realising that it means that there is expectation that you will have to share too. Vulnerability begets vulnerability. One person's courage to admit struggle gives others permission to drop their masks as well. This creates space for the kind of mutual encouragement the New Testament envisions. When we know someone's actual struggles, we can offer focused prayer, practical help, and meaningful support. The abstract command to "love one another" becomes concrete. Whether it’s bringing meals during crisis, providing childcare for overwhelmed parents, or simply sitting with someone in their pain. We aren’t meant to be passive, waiting for someone to ask for help. I remember a few years ago in a church where we were very obviously struggling with a toddler and a crying baby, a person coming to me after church and saying that they saw us struggle. “I saw you struggling earlier. If you ever need help, let me know.” It was a nice sentiment, and very common of our passive culture. Yet, if we are seeing struggle, my prayer is that I would move toward it. Many times in my life, when I have had the greatest need, I’ve been the least likely to ask for help.

This level of honest community also enables genuine accountability. Surface-level relationships can only offer surface-level encouragement and support. But when we know each other's real battles, we can speak truth in love, challenge, and celebrate. The witness value of such communities cannot be overstated. It’s back to Newbigin’s comment of the church being the hermeneutic of the Gospel. Our world is saturated with performance and filter, so a church marked by genuine care and honest struggle stands out like a beacon. People will not be drawn to our perfection but to our authenticity, not to our having all the answers but to our wrestling with real questions together.

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So…How Do We Move Beyond ‘Fine?’

Creating space for greater honesty requires intentional effort and perhaps some deep changes, but the steps are surprisingly doable.

Firstly, leadership authenticity sets the tone for entire communities. When pastors and leaders share appropriate personal struggles, their own seasons of doubt, family challenges, or spiritual dryness, it gives others permission to be human. This doesn't mean turning the pulpit into a therapy session, but rather acknowledging that those who teach about faith also walk by faith, with all its inherent challenges. I think it’s so important that people actually get to know you as a church leader, and this comes by spending real time with people. I know a pastor of a larger church who didn’t take part in their smaller community groups, but this always felt weird to me. Or when conference speakers are whisked away to green rooms. That the only time we see a leader is when they are leading, not when they were also following. I personally think we need to reflect on this.

Small group settings naturally facilitate deeper sharing. Whether through Bible studies, prayer groups, or informal gatherings, smaller numbers create the intimacy necessary for vulnerability. These groups work best when they establish clear expectations about confidentiality and create structured opportunities for check-ins beyond the typical prayer requests. Nothing kills community like broken trust, so we embrace a shared vulnerability and risk so that we can allow God to knit our hearts together.

Moving beyond "I'm fine" isn't about creating communities of constant complaint or turning every gathering into group therapy. It's about rediscovering the biblical vision of church as a place where real people bring real struggles to a real God who meets us in our mess and transforms us through community. The cost of our current culture of "fine" is too high. What we are left with is isolation masquerading as fellowship, missing opportunities for the very encouragement and support the body of Christ is designed to provide. We've created churches where people can attend for years without anyone knowing their actual struggles. But the alternative beckons us with grace-fuelled possibility. Imagine churches where honesty leads to healing, where vulnerability creates deeper connections, where struggles shared become burdens halved. Imagine churches where people don't have to pretend to have it all together because everyone understands that following Jesus is about bringing our brokenness to the One who makes all things new. I think a few years ago I would have felt this as naive optimism. But I’ve since experienced it in the most profound way.

The invitation stands before us then to move beyond the safety of "I'm fine" into the risky but rewarding territory of honest community. Perhaps this week, when someone asks how you are, you might pause for a moment. Consider offering something true instead of something easy. Risk the vulnerability of letting someone see behind the mask. In that moment of authentic connection, you might discover what the early Christians knew; that our struggles, shared in community and surrendered to grace, become pathways to the very transformation through God’s grace we're all desperately seeking.

The culture of "fine" has served its purpose, providing safe distance when we needed protection. But if we're serious about experiencing the fullness of Christian community, the kind that actually reflects the heart of Christ, then it's time to find the courage to say something true instead.