"...and by smooth talk and flattery they completely deceive the hearts of the innocent" (Santamaria)

Romans 16:18 is Paul with his pastoral gloves off. He has spent an entire letter laying out the glory of God in the gospel—sin exposed, grace magnified, Christ exalted, the righteousness of God revealed—and then, right near the end, he turns and says: now guard it. Watch. Because there is a kind of danger that does not arrive wearing horns. It arrives smiling.

The verse (Greek) reads:

οἱ γὰρ τοιοῦτοι τῷ κυρίῳ ἡμῶν Χριστῷ οὐ δουλεύουσιν ἀλλὰ τῇ ἑαυτῶν κοιλίᾳ, καὶ διὰ τῆς χρηστολογίας καὶ εὐλογίας ἐξαπατῶσιν τὰς καρδίας τῶν ἀκάκων.

A plain translation would be: “For such people do not serve our Lord Christ, but their own belly; and by smooth talk and flattery they completely deceive the hearts of the innocent.”

Paul is not describing atheists. He’s describing religious operators. The kind who can speak “Christian,” who can quote Scripture, who can sound spiritual, who can wear the vocabulary of Zion like a borrowed robe. Paul’s warning is not aimed first at the obvious enemies outside the church, but at the parasite that feeds inside the body.

He starts with a chilling phrase: οἱ γὰρ τοιοῦτοι—“for such people.” He has just warned about those who create divisions and stumbling “contrary to the teaching you learned” (Rom 16:17). Now he says, essentially, “I’m not guessing about the species.” This is a type. This is a recognizable pattern. Churches don’t just face random storms; they face recurring predators.

Then the core accusation: τῷ κυρίῳ ἡμῶν Χριστῷ οὐ δουλεύουσιν—“they do not serve our Lord Christ.” The verb δουλεύουσιν is strong: it’s not merely “help” or “support,” but “serve as a slave,” to belong to a master. Paul frames the Christian life as a matter of allegiance: you are always serving something. There is no neutral ground where the soul is free from masters. If you are not serving Christ, you are not “serving yourself in a harmless way.” You are serving another lord—whether you admit it or not.

And here is the alternative master Paul names: ἀλλὰ τῇ ἑαυτῶν κοιλίᾳ—“but their own belly.”

That word κοιλία literally means “belly,” the inward cavity, the stomach. Paul uses bodily language to unmask spiritual fraud. He is not saying every false teacher is an overeater. He is saying their “god” is appetite—self-interest, self-indulgence, self-preservation, self-advancement. The belly is an emblem for desire that demands to be fed. Their ministry exists to serve their cravings: attention, money, influence, control, praise, comfort, erotic power, the pleasure of being followed, the intoxication of being needed. Their sermons may mention Christ, but their souls bow to appetite.

That is one of the most frightening realities in religious life: you can handle holy things with unholy hands and still look “successful.” You can build a crowd while losing your own soul. You can talk about grace while secretly using people like tools. Appetite is patient. It will wait behind the pulpit with a Bible in its hand.

Then Paul explains how these people work. Not with open hostility, but with a particular kind of speech.

διὰ τῆς χρηστολογίας καὶ εὐλογίας—“through chrēstologia and eulogia.”

χρηστολογία (chrēstologia) is a rare word, and it feels like Paul coined it for maximum precision. It’s built from χρηστός (“pleasant,” “kind,” “agreeable”) and λόγος (“word, speech”). It is “pleasant-speech,” “smooth talk,” “fine-sounding language.” It’s speech that glides. It doesn’t snag. It doesn’t cut. It doesn’t warn. It doesn’t humble. It is designed to be swallowed easily—like sweet syrup that goes down without protest.

Then εὐλογία (eulogia) is “blessing,” “praise,” “fair speech,” sometimes “flattery” in context. In everyday life, eulogia can be good: blessing God, speaking well. But here it is speech used as a tool of manipulation—words that make the listener feel honored, safe, special, affirmed, while quietly disarming the conscience. It is the spiritual con-artist’s handshake: warm, firm, reassuring—while the other hand reaches for your wallet and your mind.

Paul is describing a method: not brute force, but seduction. Not argument alone, but charm. The danger is not just false doctrine stated plainly. The danger is false doctrine delivered in a voice that feels like friendship.

Then the effect: ἐξαπατῶσιν—they “deceive thoroughly.” The verb is intensified: it’s not mere mistake. It’s being led off course, being tricked, being cheated. This is deception with consequences—souls diverted, consciences dulled, churches split, weak sheep scattered.

And who is most at risk? Paul says: τὰς καρδίας τῶν ἀκάκων—“the hearts of the akakoi.”

ἄκακος literally means “without evil,” “innocent,” “unsuspecting,” “guileless.” Paul is not mocking innocence. He’s warning that innocence can become naïveté when it refuses discernment. There is a sweetness that is Christlike, and there is a softness that is unsafe. The guileless heart wants to believe the best. It assumes sincerity. It interprets warmth as truth. It thinks, “Surely no one would use the Bible to harm people.” That assumption is exactly what the deceiver feeds on.

This is why Paul’s warning belongs at the end of Romans. A church that has tasted the gospel’s sweetness can become allergic to warnings, because warnings feel “negative.” But Paul doesn’t warn because he is cynical. He warns because he is a shepherd. Love does not only feed; love guards. Love is not only tenderness; love is vigilance.

There is also a deeper logic in Paul’s wording that sobers the soul: he defines the false teacher by what he serves. This means discernment is not merely an intellectual exercise of spotting theological errors. It is also moral and spiritual: what is this person aiming at? What do they love? What do they demand? Do they point away from themselves and toward Christ, or do they subtly gather attention to themselves? Do they cultivate humility, repentance, and worship, or do they cultivate dependency on them? Are they transparent, accountable, and willing to suffer loss for truth, or do they always land on their feet with more followers and more control?

Appetite-driven ministry is often revealed not first by the sermon outline but by the fruit: the pressure tactics, the manipulation, the theatrics, the secrecy, the unwillingness to be questioned, the constant need for admiration, the creation of an “us vs. them” world where the leader is always the heroic center.

Paul’s phrase “their own belly” is devastating because it says the issue is not merely that their teaching is wrong; it’s that their worship is wrong. They are not serving Christ. Their god is the self.

So what is the cure?

The cure is not to become paranoid. Paranoia is just fear pretending to be wisdom. The cure is to become spiritually awake. Paul himself, in the surrounding context, calls the Romans to obedience and to a kind of moral intelligence: to be “wise for what is good and innocent concerning evil” (Rom 16:19). That’s the balance: not fascinated with evil, but not ignorant of its tactics; not hardened into suspicion, but strengthened into discernment.

The cure is also to keep Christ central—not as a mascot word, but as Lord. Paul calls him “our Lord Jesus Christ” and then measures everything by whether it serves Him. When Christ is Lord, the church becomes less vulnerable to religious celebrities, because the heart already has its Master. When Christ is Lord, flattery loses power, because identity is anchored in Him, not in being praised. When Christ is Lord, “smooth talk” becomes easier to spot, because the sheep have heard the Shepherd’s voice in Scripture—sometimes tender, sometimes sharp, always true.

Romans 16:18 also quietly teaches us something about how the truth often sounds. Truth is not always “pleasant-speech.” The gospel comforts, yes—but it also confronts. It wounds to heal. It tells you that you are guilty so you will run to mercy. It tells you that you are weak so you will cling to Christ. A ministry that never jars you, never humbles you, never brings you to repentance, never warns you—may be serving an appetite: either the preacher’s appetite to be liked, or the listener’s appetite to be affirmed without being changed.

That doesn’t mean harshness is automatically truth. Wolves can snarl too. But Paul is telling you that one of Satan’s favorite disguises is sweetness without substance, kindness without Christ, affirmation without holiness—pleasant words that lead to spiritual drift.

So let this verse do what it was meant to do: not to make you cynical, but to make you careful. Not to make you suspicious of every teacher, but to make you devoted to the Lord Christ above every teacher. Not to make you despair, but to make you sober—because sobriety is the friend of peace.

If you want a single sentence to carry with you, it’s this: any ministry that ultimately feeds the self—whether the speaker’s self or the hearer’s self—is already drifting from the Lordship of Christ. Paul’s warning is not a call to panic; it’s a call to allegiance. Who is being served? Christ—or the belly?

May God give you the kind of heart that is truly “without evil” (ἄκακος) in its motives, but not helpless in its discernment; a heart that loves people deeply, but loves Christ supremely; a heart that cannot be bought by flattery, and cannot be herded by smooth words, because it belongs—body and soul—to the Lord Jesus Christ.