And pious action we do sugar o'er The devil himself." (Santamaria)

"We are oft to blame in this,—'Tis too much proved — that with devotion's visage
And pious action we do sugar o'er
The devil himself."

“We are oft to blame in this,—’Tis too much proved—that with devotion’s visage and pious action we do sugar o’er the devil himself.” Hamlet’s line is a thunderclap because it names something Scripture has been shouting for millennia: the human heart can dress up rebellion in church clothes. Sin is not only a swamp; it’s also a tailor. It knows how to sew fig leaves, how to staple Bible-words onto self-will, how to put a halo on the flesh and call it “zeal.” And that is precisely why God so often aims His sharpest arrows, not at open profanity, but at religious hypocrisy—because hypocrisy is profanity that has learned to sing hymns.

The Bible does not treat this as a rare scandal. It treats it as a constant hazard. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” (Jer. 17:9). That isn’t a mild statement; it’s a diagnosis. The heart is not merely confused—it is inventive in self-justification. It can kneel while plotting. It can quote Scripture while tempting (Matt. 4:6). It can offer sacrifice while keeping back a piece (Acts 5:1–4). It can cry “Lord, Lord” while never knowing the Lord (Matt. 7:21–23). It can make long prayers and devour widows’ houses (Mark 12:40). It can “strain at a gnat” and swallow a camel (Matt. 23:24). It can wash hands while the conscience stays filthy.

So when Hamlet says we “sugar o’er the devil himself,” he is describing the same spiritual phenomenon Christ exposed in the Pharisees: “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones” (Matt. 23:27). Whitewash is not resurrection. Polished religion is not life. “This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me” (Matt. 15:8). That sentence should make any Christian tremble—because it proves a man can sound orthodox and be spiritually distant.

Now here is where an Old School Baptist instinct kicks in hard: the most dangerous religion is the kind that works outwardly. It produces visible activity, measurable outcomes, and respectable reputations—yet quietly shifts the center from Christ’s power to man’s machinery. That is the sugar coating. That is the “devotion’s visage.” It looks like spiritual life because it is busy; it feels like righteousness because it is organized. But Scripture warns us not to confuse motion with life. A corpse can be moved. Only God can quicken. “It is the spirit that quickeneth; the flesh profiteth nothing” (John 6:63). “Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, saith the LORD of hosts” (Zech. 4:6). When the church forgets this, she starts acting like the kingdom runs on human horsepower—budgets, committees, glossy appeals, and emotional lever-pulling. The result is not merely “different style.” It is a different principle.

That’s why Paul’s words sting: “Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof” (2 Tim. 3:5). A form of godliness can be extremely religious. It can hold meetings. It can publish literature. It can run campaigns. It can talk constantly about God. But it denies the power—the divine, sovereign, life-giving, conscience-awakening power of the Spirit. It replaces living fire with painted flame.

And the Bible is merciless toward this substitution. “Except the LORD build the house, they labour in vain that build it” (Ps. 127:1). That is not poetry for wall decor; it is a law of the kingdom. God is not impressed by what man can construct. The question is not, “How much did you do?” but “Who built it—and by what power—and for whose glory?” The Babel impulse is always lurking: “Let us make us a name” (Gen. 11:4). Put a cross on Babel, and you get the religious version: “Let us build something big for God,” and then treat size as proof of blessing. But the Lord scattered Babel, and He still humbles religious Babel whenever it becomes a monument to human capacity.

This is exactly why Old School Baptists historically bristled at the rise of the religious “society” system—Bible societies, tract societies, missionary boards, temperance agencies, and the whole network of centralized benevolent machinery that grew in 19th-century America. Their fear was not “doing good.” Their fear was doing good in a way that displaces Christ’s appointed order and feeds human pride. They saw that once religion is externalized into permanent agencies, those agencies must justify themselves, fund themselves, defend themselves, expand themselves. They become organisms with an appetite. And to feed that appetite, they learn to manipulate sentiment: crisis rhetoric, heroic storytelling, guilt-driven appeals, glossy reports, and endless “success narratives.” That is exactly how “pious action” can sugar over the devil: the flesh loves to be congratulated for “helping God,” while the gospel insists God helps the helpless—and saves sinners who cannot save themselves.

Scripture draws a bright line between God’s grace and man’s boasting: “For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast” (Eph. 2:8–9). Yet the moment a religious system trains people to think spiritual life is produced by their action—by their decision, their effort, their technique, their program—it is not a small error. It is a drift toward boasting. And boasting is not a cute flaw. Boasting is theft. It steals glory from Christ.

That is why Paul speaks the way he does: “God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Gal. 6:14). The cross is the graveyard of human bragging. The cross says: you were so ruined that only blood could cleanse you; so dead that only resurrection could raise you; so lost that only sovereign mercy could find you. Any religious culture that encourages confidence in human procedures—however politely framed—begins to dull the edge of the cross.

And here is the devilish genius: he doesn’t always tempt the church with obvious wickedness. He tempts her with religious alternatives that feel noble. He tempts her to trade prayer for planning, the Spirit for strategy, truth for broad appeal, and the church for a para-church empire. He tempts her to put her trust in horses and chariots (Ps. 20:7)—only now the horses and chariots are “platforms,” “campaigns,” “initiatives,” “networks,” “media strategies,” “funding drives,” “impact metrics.” None of those things is sinful in itself in every context. The poison is not the existence of tools; the poison is the transfer of trust. “Cursed be the man that trusteth in man… Blessed is the man that trusteth in the LORD” (Jer. 17:5, 7). God will not share the throne with our techniques.

This is where biblical religion becomes gloriously offensive. It refuses to flatter the flesh. It insists that man’s problem is not merely ignorance needing information; it is death needing life. “And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins” (Eph. 2:1). A dead man does not need pamphlets the way a living man needs lunch. He needs resurrection. “No man can come to me, except the Father which hath sent me draw him” (John 6:44). “So then it is not of him that willeth, nor of him that runneth, but of God that sheweth mercy” (Rom. 9:16). That is not a popular doctrine for fundraising, because it makes human salesmanship look ridiculous. It makes manipulation look like blasphemy. It says salvation is the Lord’s work from first to last (Jonah 2:9).

And when the church forgets that, she begins manufacturing what only God can create. The result is a Christianity thick with religious language and thin with spiritual life. People learn the dialect, the slogans, the moral habits, the tribe signals—without ever being broken by the law, humbled by grace, or brought to rest in Christ. They learn to say “I’m saved” the way one says “I’m a member.” They learn to confuse “I felt something” with “I believe in the Son of God.” But Scripture says faith is not mere enthusiasm; it is Spirit-wrought union with Christ producing repentance, perseverance, and love of holiness. “If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature” (2 Cor. 5:17). Not a new hobbyist. Not a new joiner. A new creature.

This is why the prophets are so fierce. Isaiah does not politely critique shallow worship. He says God is sick of it: “To what purpose is the multitude of your sacrifices unto me? saith the LORD… I am full of the burnt offerings… Bring no more vain oblations” (Isa. 1:11–13). Amos is even more blunt: “I hate, I despise your feast days… Take thou away from me the noise of thy songs” (Amos 5:21–23). That should stun us. God can call worship “noise.” Why? Because it was worship as performance, worship as cover, worship as sugar coating.

And Christ carries the same fire. He does not merely suggest improvements; He overturns tables (Matt. 21:12–13). He does not merely counsel the Pharisees; He pronounces woes (Matt. 23). He calls them blind guides, hypocrites, serpents. Why so severe? Because they were not only wrong; they were poisoning others with wrongness that wore a religious mask. They were “compassing sea and land to make one proselyte” and making him “twofold more the child of hell” (Matt. 23:15). Missionary zeal without truth is not neutral. It is dangerous.

Now, bring that back to tracts, pamphlets, and religious literature. Paper is not holy. A tract can be a faithful witness, or it can be propaganda. It can point to Christ, or it can sell a system. It can comfort the broken, or it can bully the conscience. And in America, the tract industry became massive—sometimes earnest, sometimes shallow, sometimes sensational, sometimes manipulative. Moral tales turned into a substitute gospel. Eyewitness testimonies became a kind of entertainment. Polemics became a sport. And the devil, who can quote Scripture, can certainly publish it—provided it is used to promote human control rather than divine grace.

Old School Baptists would have asked: Does this writing exalt Christ or man? Does it preach the finished work or the sinner’s contribution? Does it keep the church central, or does it create an extra-church empire? Does it rest on “Thus saith the Lord,” or on emotional leverage? Does it produce humility or triumphalism? Does it bring sinners to confession—“God be merciful to me a sinner” (Luke 18:13)—or to self-congratulation—“God, I thank thee, that I am not as other men are” (Luke 18:11)? Because Christ Himself tells us which man went home justified.

And let’s not pretend this is only “out there.” The sugar can be in us. We can sugar over our own devils—our pride, our coldness, our envy, our bitterness—by staying busy with religious work. We can hide prayerlessness behind “ministry.” We can hide lovelessness behind “discernment.” We can hide unbelief behind “analysis.” We can hide lack of communion with God behind the thrill of being right. That’s why Paul tells the Corinthians to examine themselves (2 Cor. 13:5), and why James warns that “pure religion” is not loud religion but humble, obedient religion (James 1:27).

So what is the remedy? Not cynicism. Not laziness. Not a smug anti-tract posture. The remedy is repentance and a return to first principles: Christ alone, grace alone, truth alone, Spirit alone, Scripture alone. The church must remember that her weapons are not carnal (2 Cor. 10:4). Her power is not persuasion techniques. Her engine is the Spirit of God. “Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit” (Zech. 4:6). Her confidence is not in human will, but in divine mercy (Rom. 9:16). Her glory is not in her reach, but in the cross (Gal. 6:14). Her calling is not to impress the world, but to be faithful to her Head.

And Christ’s own words should ring like iron: “Without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5). Not “less,” not “not as much,” but “nothing.” That kills religious self-reliance. It forces the church back onto her knees. It forces the preacher back to trembling dependence. It forces the believer to say, “Lord, save: I perish” (Matt. 8:25).

The devil does not mind a Christianity that is all “devotion’s visage,” all pious talk, all moral uplift, all philanthropic hustle—so long as Christ is treated as an accessory rather than the center. But Christ will not be an accessory. He is the Alpha and Omega (Rev. 1:8). He is not a brand; He is a King. He is not a tool; He is the Lord. And when He comes near in power, He does not merely tweak our systems—He exposes hearts. He burns off varnish. He overturns idols. He makes men honest. He makes them small. He makes them worship.

So yes—Hamlet’s line lands because it is true: we can sugar over the devil with religious sweetness. But the gospel is not sugar. The gospel is a sword that cuts, a fire that purges, a light that reveals, and then—glory of glories—a Savior who actually saves. Not helps. Saves. “He shall save his people from their sins” (Matt. 1:21). Not from their inconveniences, not from their low self-esteem, not merely from their worst habits—from their sins. That means forgiveness by blood (Eph. 1:7). That means justification by grace (Rom. 3:24). That means a new birth from above (John 3:3). That means the Spirit’s indwelling power (Rom. 8:9–11). That means perseverance held by God (1 Pet. 1:5).

And when that gospel is believed—not performed, not marketed, not packaged—then the sugar coating falls away. The sinner stops pretending. The saint stops boasting. The church stops trusting in machines. And Christ is exalted, not merely spoken of. Because in the end, the question is not whether our religion looked devout. The question is whether it was true, whether it was wrought by God, whether it honored the Son.

“Search me, O God, and know my heart… and lead me in the way everlasting” (Ps. 139:23–24). That prayer is the enemy of sugared religion. It is the beginning of reality.