The Danger of Pious Rhetoric
Unmasking Hidden Agendas
If all we had of Matthew’s gospel was a fragile fragment of papyrus containing two verses—Matthew 2:7–8—we might have built an entirely different story about Herod. We would see a ruler who called upon the magi in private, sought their wisdom, and expressed an earnest desire to worship the Christ child. He would appear open-minded, deferential, even pious.
But we are fortunate to have the fuller record. Only five verses later, Matthew 2:13 reveals Herod’s actual intent: the destruction of the infant king. His outward confession was a mask; his heart harbored murder. What appeared as reverence was actually conspiracy.
This gap between words and deeds is not confined to Herod’s palace. It is alive in our sanctuaries. Many in the church today are content to take people at their words alone. A testimony, a prayer, a Scripture quotation—these are often accepted as proof of spiritual health. Yet the Bible consistently presses us to evaluate not just what people say but what they do. Jesus himself declared, “By their fruits you will recognize them” (Matthew 7:16).
Why do we so often stop short of this biblical imperative? Perhaps because the demands of the faith are, for many, a bridge too far. To test fruit requires patience, honesty, and courage. It requires acknowledging that not everyone who professes Christ actually follows Him. That is a hard truth, especially in communities where loyalty and fellowship are treasured.
Yet Scripture gives us stark reminders of what happens when confession is divorced from transformation. In John 6, the crowds who once swarmed Jesus abandoned Him when His teaching cut too close to the bone. Judas Iscariot walked with Jesus, handled the money bag, and even dipped his hand in the bowl with the Lord—yet his heart was never truly with Him. In Acts 8, Simon the Sorcerer professed belief and even received baptism, but his lust for power betrayed him. And in Acts 19, the sons of Sceva invoked the name of Jesus as a kind of magical incantation, only to be humiliated and exposed.
These examples are not anomalies; they are warnings. They tell us that words can be cheap, rituals can be hollow, and appearances can deceive. The church is not immune to Herod’s duplicity.
Yet Scripture does not leave us helpless. It equips us with discernment. Hebrews 5:14 describes maturity as the ability to “distinguish good from evil.” Paul exhorts the Thessalonians to “test everything; hold fast what is good” (1 Thess. 5:21). John urges believers not to trust every spirit but to “test the spirits to see whether they are from God” (1 John 4:1). Discernment is not suspicion for suspicion’s sake. It is the Spirit-enabled capacity to pierce through rhetoric and recognize reality.
That means the church must learn to vet fruit, not just nod at words. It must ask: does this confession of faith produce humility, compassion, repentance, and obedience—or pride, manipulation, and self-promotion? Does this claim to devotion build up the body of Christ—or exploit it?
If Matthew 2:7–8 were all we had, we might conclude that Herod was a worshiper. But we know better, because the gospel unveils his intent. In the same way, Christians today must not settle for fragments of people’s stories. We must seek the whole picture, measured against the standard of Christ.
Herod teaches us this: rhetoric without righteousness is dangerous. And if we fail to discern the difference, we risk mistaking the counterfeit for the true, and worse, handing over the Christ child to those who seek to destroy Him.