The Sacred and the Profane: Confronting Sexual Immorality
There’s something deeply disquieting about walking into a gym—a space ostensibly devoted to health and self-improvement—only to see it transformed into a stage for hypersexuality. This isn’t hyperbole. I once witnessed someone twerking between sets on a cable machine, and while the absurdity of the scene might provoke a laugh, it’s emblematic of something darker, something systemic: the trivialization of sexuality and the wounds that fuel it.
Hypersexuality, at its core, is a disease of perception. It’s not the human body that is immoral or shameful; it’s the way we’ve learned to see it. Advertising, media, and cultural narratives have twisted our relationship with sex and the body into something grotesque. The sacred has been stripped, commodified, and sold back to us in pieces, leaving behind a gaping void that too many of us try to fill in ways that deepen our pain rather than heal it.
A Broken Mirror
Sex was never meant to be a tool for validation, power, or distraction. It is, as scripture reminds us, profoundly sacred. Yet our culture has degraded it to a shallow transaction, devoid of intimacy and meaning. The Apostle Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 6:18-20 call us back to a higher understanding:
“Flee from sexual immorality. All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body. Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.”
But we don’t honor the body. We exploit it. We exploit others’ bodies for entertainment, our own bodies for attention, and the act of sex itself for fleeting gratification. And then we wonder why we feel so hollow. This isn’t a flaw in human nature—it’s a reflection of a system designed to devalue what is sacred for the sake of profit and control.
The Roots of Hypersexuality
Hypersexual behavior doesn’t spring from a vacuum. More often than not, it’s rooted in trauma. Abuse, neglect, and exposure to distorted ideas about sex at a young age lay the foundation for a lifetime of dysfunctional relationships—with oneself, with others, and with the concept of intimacy itself.
Consider the prevalence of pornography. Many of us were introduced to it far too young, before we could comprehend its impact. It reshapes perception, wiring the brain to conflate intimacy with performance, love with lust, and human connection with an endless pursuit of novelty. It numbs us to the beauty and depth of real relationships, replacing them with shallow fantasies.
And it’s not just individuals who are affected. A society that normalizes these distortions perpetuates the cycle, passing the wounds down to the next generation. The result? A culture where hypersexuality is not only accepted but expected—a culture where people feel pressured to present themselves as objects for consumption, and where the sacred act of sex is reduced to spectacle.
Intent Matters
When we witness hypersexuality—whether in behavior, attire, or media—it’s tempting to judge. But judgment misses the point. The real question is one of intent: why is someone doing what they’re doing? Are they seeking validation, masking pain, or attempting to reclaim a sense of power? And just as importantly, why do we, as viewers, react the way we do?
The human body is not inherently sexual. Adam and Eve only fashioned clothing after eating the fruit of worldly knowledge, as if the act of covering themselves was a response to a corrupted understanding of their own nakedness. As Genesis 3:7 describes:
“Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.”
The problem lies in perception—in the layers of meaning we project onto the body and the behaviors we adopt in response.
If you look at someone and have sexual thoughts about them, that’s something you need to work on. But if someone purposefully tries to elicit those thoughts through their actions, that’s something they need to work on. Both sides of this equation point to the same truth: our relationship with the body and with sex has been fundamentally distorted, and the path to healing requires honest introspection.
Reclaiming the Sacred
Healing begins with rejecting the narrative that sex is cheap, that the body is a product, and that intimacy can be commodified. It begins with seeing the body as a temple—not an object of desire, not a tool for power, but a sacred vessel.
Paul’s words in Romans 8:6-8 remind us of the stakes:
“The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace. The mind governed by the flesh is hostile to God; it does not submit to God’s law, nor can it do so. Those who are in the realm of the flesh cannot please God.”
Our culture, governed by the flesh, cannot offer peace. It offers distraction, titillation, and consumption, but not fulfillment. To live differently—to reclaim the sacredness of sex and the dignity of the human form—is to swim against the tide. It requires unlearning the lies we’ve been told, seeing through the illusions that keep us enslaved, and aligning ourselves with a higher truth.
This isn’t about prudishness or shame. It’s about recognizing the profound value of what has been desecrated. It’s about treating the body, and the act of sex, with the reverence they deserve—not because they are inherently shameful, but because they are inherently sacred.
The Cost of Blindness
To remain blind to these truths is to remain enslaved to a system that profits from our pain. It’s to continue feeding the machine that strips intimacy of its meaning and reduces people to objects. Those who choose to remain blind are at the most risk—not because they are evil, but because they are complicit in their own dehumanization.
But awareness comes at a cost. To see the corruption is to feel its weight, to carry the burden of knowledge in a world that thrives on ignorance. It’s painful to confront how deeply broken our systems are, and how complicit we’ve been in sustaining them. Yet this pain is necessary. It’s the price of freedom.
The Narrow Path Forward
The path to healing is not easy. It demands introspection, courage, and a willingness to reject the comfortable lies of the world. But it is the only path worth taking. To reclaim the sacred is to reclaim our humanity—to resist the forces that seek to devalue us and to align ourselves with something greater than ourselves.
This is not a call to judgment, but to compassion—for others, and for ourselves. We are all products of a broken system, but we are not bound by it. The narrow path is difficult, but it is the path to life and peace.
The question is: will you choose to see, or will you remain blind?