Calling Out Sin… Except Your Own

There’s a different kind of frustration that comes when someone claims faith loudly, but lives it quietly, selectively, or only when it’s convenient.

Not imperfectly. Not struggling. Selectively.

Because let’s be clear... there’s a difference.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with the tension of watching someone hold strong convictions about certain sins while casually excusing others. The kind of faith that says, “The Bible clearly says being drunk is wrong,” but somehow finds room to justify other behaviors because they aren’t explicitly named. The kind of faith that draws hard lines around what a church should or shouldn’t support, while softening the lines around personal choices. It's confusing. Not because I expect perfection. But because I expect consistency.

The Bible does speak clearly about drunkenness; like in Ephesians 5:18, where it calls believers to not be controlled by wine but to be filled with the Spirit. But the heart behind that isn’t just about alcohol... it’s about control, surrender, and what leads your life.

That same principle shows up again in 1 Corinthians 6:12: “I have the right to do anything,” you say, but not everything is beneficial. I will not be mastered by anything.

And that’s where things start to feel… uneven.

Because if the standard is about being mastered by something... about losing control, about choosing things that pull you away from clarity and discipline, then how do we pick and choose what applies and what doesn’t? How do we hold tight convictions about one thing, while loosening our grip on another? That’s the part no one really talks about.

Not the loud sins.

Not the obvious ones.

But the quiet justifications.

And that’s what bothers me most... not the behavior itself, but the confidence behind it. The ability to call something wrong for others while rewriting the narrative for yourself.

Because real faith, at least the kind I’m learning to live doesn’t sound like that.

It sounds more like humility.

It sounds like, “I don’t have it all together.” Like, “I’m trying, but I fall short.” Like, “God is still working on me, too.”

Not a list of rules for everyone else… and exceptions for yourself.

And then there’s the conversation around what churches should represent... who they should welcome, what they should display, and how they should love people. Some believe the church should draw clear lines. Others believe it should open wide doors.

But I keep coming back to this:

Jesus never seemed afraid of being around people who didn’t have it all figured out. He didn’t lead with exclusion. He led with invitation. That doesn’t mean truth disappears, it just means love isn’t conditional.

So when I see faith used to draw lines around others, while creating loopholes for self… it doesn’t sit right in my spirit. Not because I’m above anyone. But because I’m trying to live honestly before God.

And honesty means I don’t get to rewrite scripture to fit my comfort. It means I don’t get to highlight certain sins while dimming the ones that hit closer to home. It means I don’t get to perform righteousness while avoiding accountability. It means I have to look inward first. Every time.

I’m learning that faith isn’t about being right all the time, it’s about being real. It’s about letting conviction hit your own heart before you ever try to place it on someone else’s. Because at the end of the day, selective faith isn’t just confusing to others… It slowly disconnects you from the very truth you say you believe. And I don’t want that.

I want a faith that’s consistent. A faith that’s honest. A faith that doesn’t shift depending on what’s comfortable, but one that calls me higher, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s personal.