An acquaintance recently told me about an incident that happened in his tool-and-die shop years ago. Like many such workers, he had hung pin-up posters of women around his work station. One day, he came to work and found they had been torn up and thrown away. He confronted a "goofy" young man in the shop, who admitted he'd done it. He did it, he explained, because the Lord doesn't like pornography.

The young man's name? Toby Studabaker, the same man recently arrested after an international manhunt for rendezvousing with a twelve-year-old girl in England and France.

My acquaintance's story (which I have not independently verified) reminds me of a lawyer adage: If, during your first consultation, a new client mentions that he's a Christian or otherwise sends a clear signal that he's religious (e.g., "I've been praying about this"), double your retainer fee. The person is more likely to be a nuisance or to stiff you on the final bill.

It's just a general rule, of course, but it highlights a phenomenon that I have repeatedly observed: Christians who wear religion on their sleeves seem to be dishonest, irresponsible, and/or goofy.

Some readers may vehemently disagree with this observation. That's fine, but I could give many other examples to back it up (many taken from my "over 90 days" past due accounts receivable list).

The really interesting question is: Why does this phenomenon occur?

There are lots of possible answers, and the answer probably varies with the individual.

Many of these "sleeve Christians," for instance, might just be inherently unstable individuals (I'm guessing this is Mr. Studabaker's category). Religion is a "coping mechanism" and they tend to brandish it like a sword—and wear it like armor. Because it is merely a tool rather than an infused virtue, it scarcely helps them when confronted with the real hurdles of life and they end up stumbling.

The sleeve Christian's problem might also result from smugness. There's a tendency among some Christians to assume they are always right because the Lord is on their side. The problem is, this type of thinking makes the Christian only one step removed from being God Himself. As a consequence, it's pretty easy for such a person to accept even his most base emotions, opinions, or reactions as nearly divine and, therefore, correct.

Overall, however, I think the answer to the problem with the sleeve question can be found in these words by G.K. Chesterton: "The holy man always conceals his holiness; that is the one invariable rule." If this is accurate (and Chesterton had an uncanny nose for the truth), a man who reveals his "holiness" logically must be unholy.

Although I'm not holy, I try to conceal any holiness that comes my way. Why? Because just as grace and holiness sometimes come my way, sometimes they go the other way or, in my sinfulness, I reject them. The result? I act poorly. Maybe it's a burst of anger, or succumbing to the temptation to tell a dirty joke, or taking immodest notice of a pretty girl. It could be lots of things, but I know this: At some point, I will sin and someone will see it. If the same person also knows I'm a Christian, he will begin to question my religion and my God.

It ought not be this way, of course. Basic theology points out that a person can believe but also sin. But America isn't rife with theological common sense, especially among non-Christians. They simply don't understand the difference between weakness and hypocrisy, and therefore twitter with excitement when a Christian—especially a Christian who, through pride or shortsightedness, throws God in their face—stumbles.

I was disturbed by the WWJD bracelet fad a few years ago. Talk about wearing God on your sleeve. Witnessing to the faith is a good thing, but advertising your own piety? That's not a good idea.

As far as I'm concerned, the Middle Ages had a far better idea: The hair shirt. It was an awfully harsh reminder, but it was covered by one's clothes and sat next to the heart—where true holiness belongs.

Now, this doesn't mean that holiness is supposed to be hidden so it cannot influence others. Holiness, after all, is meant to spread. It's infectious. But like an infection, it spreads unnoticeably.

This isn't surprising. Holiness is the partner of grace, and grace works quietly. At some level it's magical, but it's not the flashy and "in your face" magic of Harry Potter; it's more like the subtle magic of Middle Earth's Gandalf, a magic that only occasionally reveals itself.

Likewise, the holiness that grace induces ought also be subtle: Influencing others quietly and only at times showing its full glory and even then, only if necessary.