YWPMI

The Dangerous Sins NOBODY Preaches About

Have you ever notice how the church will go hard on the “big sins”, like sexual immorality, addiction, whatever. There’s a whole protocol for that stuff. Accountability partners. Church discipline. Prayer chains. Fasting. People get sent to conferences and retreats. It’s like there’s a checklist, a framework, a safety net for the obvious failures. Everyone knows the playbook for these things. People can track your progress, measure your repentance, see if you’ve hit the milestones. It’s concrete, it’s visible, it’s manageable.

But then there’s this whole category of sins, quiet ones, sneaky ones, that nobody really talks about. They’re not flashy, they don’t make headlines, they don’t fit neatly into a seminar or a small-group curriculum, but they rot people from the inside out. And they’re everywhere. In churches. In small groups. In worship teams and leadership meetings and potlucks and prayer circles. They hide behind smiles, polite nods, and phrases that sound holy, phrases that sound like care. These sins are the ones that whisper, that linger in hallways, that echo after the prayers are said and the lights are off.

I’m talking about gossip. I’m talking about grudges. I’m talking about bitterness that’s been baptized in polite Christian language, given a name that makes it feel safe, acceptable, even righteous.

Gossip? Oh, we don’t call it that. We call it “sharing a concern.” Or “just being real.” Or “keeping people informed.” No. You’re stirring poison into the well. You’re assassinating someone’s character behind their back while pretending you’re doing a good thing. You’re using your words, words that are supposed to build up the Body, to tear it down from the inside. And don’t give me that look. I’ve done it too. I know what it is. I’ve said it in whispers, in private chats, in church parking lots. I’ve let the words slide because I thought it was harmless, because I thought I was “just being honest.” But honesty without love, without mercy, without humility, is destruction.

Grudges? Oh man, this one gets real cozy. We say we’ve forgiven, but we haven’t forgotten, and we mean that in the pettiest way. “I forgive them, but I don’t trust them.” “I’m just setting boundaries.” Maybe. Or maybe you’re keeping score with holy language because you’d rather be “right” than healed. Maybe you’re quietly rooting for them to fail so you can feel vindicated. Maybe the bitterness you think you’re managing is managing you, guiding your thoughts, dictating your interactions, shaping the story you tell yourself every single day. It’s quiet, subtle, but powerful.

And let’s not kid ourselves: God hears all of it.

You think He’s just eavesdropping on cussing and R-rated movies? No. He hears what we say in the car when we think nobody’s listening. He hears the tone we use when we talk about “that person” again. He hears the silent judgment in our thoughts when someone walks into church late or dresses “wrong.” He hears us rehearsing our grudges in our heads like courtroom lawyers building a case. He knows the little mental footnotes we tack on about how someone deserves it, how they should feel, how they failed.

God. Hears. Everything.

That should make us tremble, not because God is cruel, but because He’s holy. And we’ve made peace with these subtle sins like they’re not deadly. But they are. They divide churches. They wreck friendships. They slowly, sneakily turn our hearts cold and proud. And before you know it, we’re doing the devil’s work while wearing a cross necklace. The work looks religious. It sounds holy. It’s done in His name. But the fruit is rotten. And we are blind to it because the sins are “small”. Because they’re whispered. Because we call them “just being human.”

And I think the reason we don’t preach about this much is because it hits too close to home. You can shout down the sinners “out there”, but when it’s the quiet poison in your own heart, that’s harder to face. It makes you squirm. It makes you defensive. And so, like everyone else, we pretend it doesn’t exist. We leave it under the rug, we tuck it away in corners, we decorate it with pious words and righteous phrases.

But we have to face it. We have to drag these “respectable little sins” into the light. Because they’re killing our witness. They’re grieving the Spirit. They’re mocking the grace that saved us, the very mercy that rescued us from sins far more obvious, far more public, far more shameful.

So yeah, I’m a little miffed. Because I’ve seen what gossip does. I’ve seen what bitterness breeds. And I’ve seen how we excuse it like it’s no big deal. We give it a halo, a smile, a wink. We dress it up and call it harmless. But it isn’t.

AND it is a big deal. And Jesus died for that stuff too. So maybe it’s time we repent for the sins we’ve gotten comfortable with. The ones nobody preaches about, but God still hears loud and clear.

You know what’s wild? We treat gossip like a hobby. Like it’s just something that happens when people get together. “Oh, that’s just how church folks are.” No. That’s how broken church folks are. That’s not how Spirit-filled people are supposed to live. It’s not harmless chatter. It’s spiritual venom that infects the atmosphere, poisons relationships, and leaves people wondering if the Body of Christ is safe, or if it’s just another battlefield.

And we wonder why revival tarries. We cry out for the fire of God, for healing, for breakthrough, and I imagine sometimes God saying, “You want fire? You can’t even handle truth. You want revival? You still talk about and against each other more than you talk to Me. You want breakthrough? You still whisper and judge behind doors you claim are holy.”

Let’s be honest, there are people who have left the church entirely not because of doctrine or theology, but because they were the punchline in someone else’s “prayer request.” Because their wounds got passed around like entertainment. Because forgiveness was preached from the pulpit and withheld in the pews. That’s not persecution. That’s internal sabotage. That’s a spiritual assault carried out in whispers and nods and polite smiles.

And it’s not always loud, either. Sometimes the bitterness is quiet. It just sits there, under the surface. You smile. You say you’re fine. You even pray for them, kind of. But every time you see their face or hear their name, something in you tenses up. Your stomach knots. Your jaw tightens. Your heart keeps score. You think it’s normal. You think it’s just how it is now. But it’s not.

But God never called us to “just get over it.” He called us to forgive like He forgave. Lavishly. Unfairly. Painfully. He called us to leave vengeance and grudges in His hands, to let His love do the work we cannot.

And look, I know what you’re thinking. “But they hurt me. They lied. They used me. They embarrassed me. They never apologized.” Yeah, they probably did. I’m not downplaying that. I’ve been there. There are people who have stabbed me in the back and then acted like I was the problem for bleeding. It’s a bitter reality, a hard lesson, and it’s true for all of us at one point or another.

But hear me: their sin doesn’t excuse yours. What they did to you doesn’t justify the way you carry it. If you’re using their behavior to defend your bitterness, you’ve handed them control over your spirit. And that’s not strength. That’s bondage.

We don’t get to hold onto unforgiveness just because it feels righteous. The cross wasn’t fair. Grace isn’t fair. And that’s the point. We live in a world that insists fairness is the measure of justice, and we find ourselves clinging to grudges like armor, but God’s kingdom operates differently. It calls us to a radical, uncomfortable, revolutionary forgiveness that defies our human instinct to keep score.

Some of us are so addicted to offense that we don’t know who we are without it. We rehearse the same story over and over, not because we’re still hurting, but because being the victim gives us power. Or so we think. We cultivate our injuries, polish them, let them define us, and then wonder why we feel trapped, why our souls feel heavy, why revival never touches us.

But God never told us to weaponize our wounds. He told us to bring them to Him. And it’s only when we lay that stuff down, grudges, gossip, bitterness, that we can actually heal.

Because you can’t carry revival in one hand and revenge in the other. You can’t pray for God to move and still be privately rejoicing when someone else fails. You can’t speak in tongues on Sunday and assassinate someone’s character on Monday and think God’s just cool with it.

Let me go ahead and say something that might offend your flesh: it’s not just messy, it’s demonic.

Yeah, I said it. James 3:6 says, The tongue is a fire, a world of unrighteousness, set on fire by hell. That hell fuels gossip and slander and venomous speech. It literally says bitter jealousy and selfish ambition are earthly, unspiritual, and demonic. So why do we treat gossip like it’s tea time instead of spiritual warfare?

We get so comfortable with it that we forget, God hates it. Not mildly dislikes it. Hates it. Proverbs 6:16-19 says He detests one who sows discord among brothers. That’s not just the dramatic church splitter. That’s the whisperer. The shade-thrower. The screenshot-sender. The chronic “just between us” person.

And grudges? Scripture says if you bring your gift to the altar and remember someone has something against you, leave your gift. Go make it right. Don’t even bother with the offering until reconciliation is attempted. God cares more about your relationships than your performance. More about unity than your platform.

And some of y’all are wondering why you feel dry spiritually. It’s not because you need another worship song. It’s not because your praise team isn’t loud enough, or your sermon isn’t “inspiring” enough. It’s because you need to forgive. Or confess. Or apologize. Or finally stop rehearsing the same offense like it’s part of your identity. That bitterness, that quiet grudge, is like a dam blocking the river of God’s Spirit in your life. It keeps you thirsty even when everything around you looks lush and alive.

Let me just go there: Some of us have built friendships based on gossip. Your closeness is built on mutual offense. Shared enemies. Complaints swapped like currency. And when that person heals or reconciles, you suddenly don’t know how to relate anymore. That’s not friendship. That’s trauma-bonding around sin. It’s a network of relationships held together by pain, judgment, and secret agreement in slander. God has better for you. There is a richness in relationships built on truth, mercy, and mutual love that is impossible in any dynamic powered by gossip or bitterness.

You want intimacy with God? Start by cleaning out the stuff that keeps His Spirit at arm’s length. And yes, He’s grieved. The Holy Spirit is grieved by this stuff. That’s not a metaphor. That’s real. Every whispered word, every unspoken accusation, every mental replay of an offense pierces His heart. Gossip and grudges don’t just hurt people. They offend heaven. They dishonor the holiness of God dwelling among us.

We are walking sanctuaries of the living God. Every word we speak has weight. Every conversation either builds a bridge or burns one. Every secret we repeat without permission becomes a nail in someone’s spiritual coffin. The walls of heaven watch the architecture of our words. We have to do better. We must do better. Because even in the smallest conversations, even in casual comments, eternity is listening.

And here’s the part that absolutely wrecks me: the God who hears everything, still stays near. Think about that. He hears the things I said when I thought no one else was around. The conversations that were more venom than truth. The times I smiled in someone’s face and rolled my eyes when they walked away. The moments I replayed someone’s failure and felt a sick little satisfaction in my chest. And yet, He didn’t leave. He didn’t shut the door. He didn’t say, “That’s it, I’m done with you.”

No, He stays. But make no mistake, His presence isn’t permission. His patience isn’t approval. It’s mercy. And mercy has a time limit when it’s continually trampled. God’s not passive about division. He’s not indifferent to our drama. The same Jesus who called out demons and flipped tables still cares about what we’re whispering behind people’s backs. Still calls us to the hard work of unity. Of reconciliation. Of actually looking like Him.

And maybe you’re feeling it right now. That tightness in your chest. That little sting of conviction. Good. That’s not shame. That’s the Spirit. That’s what it feels like when God turns the light on in a room you’ve been keeping dark for too long. That feeling is holy. It’s the Holy Spirit inviting you to come out of hiding, to step into healing, to let Him do in your heart what you cannot do on your own.

Because here’s the truth: He’s not exposing you to humiliate you. He’s inviting you to be healed. To be clean. To be free from this constant cycle of suspicion and judgment and relational wreckage. Because that is not your inheritance. That is not the kingdom. And it’s definitely not who you are in Christ. You are not meant to carry this weight. You are meant to walk free, light, and unburdened by the poison that has been creeping in under your own roof, under your own tongue, and in your own heart.

Can we be honest? Some of us are spiritually exhausted not because we’re under attack, but because we’re carrying the weight of unresolved sin. Of conversations we never should’ve had. Of apologies we still haven’t made. Of grudges we baptized instead of burying. It sits in the soul like gravel in a shoe, every step uncomfortable, every movement slowed. And today, right now, you can lay it down. For real this time.

Lay down the addiction to knowing everyone’s business. Lay down the urge to always have the last word. Lay down the imaginary courtroom where you win every argument. Lay down the silent narratives you’ve written about people who never got to defend themselves. And lay it down not because they deserve it, but because He does. Because the cross didn’t just cover your sin. It covered theirs too. And that person you’ve been dragging in your thoughts for years? Jesus bled for them. Loves them. Is still pursuing them.

And that’s humbling. Isn’t it? That the same grace I need is the grace they need. That I don’t get to be the exception. That I don’t get to define righteousness by what hurts I’ve carried the longest. Forgiveness isn’t saying, “It didn’t matter.” It’s saying, “It’s not mine to carry anymore.” It’s not your job to make them see. It’s your job to be free.

And gossip? There is no “small” version of it. No “safe” dose. You don’t need to know everything. You don’t need to comment on everything. You’re not the Holy Spirit’s assistant. Sometimes the most godly thing you can do is shut your mouth, pray in secret, and refuse to let your tongue become a weapon dressed in religious language.

Listen. You want revival? Start with repentance. You want a fresh move of God in your life? Start by breaking up with the sin you’ve secretly befriended. You want real community? Real healing? Real peace? Then it’s time to get real honest, with God, and maybe with some people too.

Maybe that means sending a text: “I’m sorry.” Maybe that means deleting a thread, confessing a conversation, or finally letting go of that story you’ve been telling to justify your coldness. Maybe it means asking God to rip the root out. Not just the behavior, but the need. The wound that made you cling to gossip in the first place. The fear that made you hold that grudge like a shield. The pride that made you play judge instead of servant.

Because this isn’t about behavior modification. This is about soul transformation. You can’t white-knuckle your way to purity. You have to let Him in. To the petty places. To the painful places. Even to the parts you’ve excused for so long you forgot they were sinful.

Let Him in.

Because here’s the real scandal of grace: God hears every wicked thing we’ve ever thought, said, or done, and still chooses to dwell with us. Still calls us His temple. Still calls us to more. Not because we’re good. But because He is.

So don’t let the shame silence you. Don’t let pride keep you stuck. Don’t let the fear of being exposed rob you of the healing waiting on the other side of honesty. God is not waiting to punish you. He’s waiting to restore you. He’s heard it all, and He’s still calling your name.

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