Becoming Malice: What Happens When Truth Enters the Chat

In an era of branding and performance, one artist chooses flat footed honesty.

The return of Malice to the Clipse is one of the most important cultural moments in recent memory.

In a time when darkness and gossip dominate the narrative, Let God Sort Em Out is more than just a moment, it’s a milestone for the group, Virginia, and anyone who is a creator. A testimony that isn’t just for Clipse fans or hip-hop heads. It’s for anyone who’s ever had the courage to walk away, encounter truth, and return with more clarity and authority. Malice’s story is an offering for those of us who long to be free.

I recently shared a video highlighting Malice’s return, with a few clips from interviews he did on the Joe Budden Podcast and Effective Immediately with DJ Hed and Gina Views (the duo completed a long list of top hip hop podcasts leaving no stone unturned). The Clipse have delivered one of the most talked-about hip-hop rollouts in years—not just because of their 15-year hiatus or because they recorded the album in the Louis Vuitton headquarters with longtime collaborator Pharrell—but specifically, because of Malice.

Malice, the elder of the duo, returned after a long and intentional absence. While his younger, and perhaps more popular brother Pusha T has remained a fixture in the rap world through rap battles with Drake and collaborations with Kanye, it’s Malice’s quiet transformation that pulled me into this cultural moment the most. With his return to the Clipse, I watched closely—not just to hear the music, but to witness who he was becoming. How had his faith shaped him? How would he handle the tension of his faith and culture?

Malice had left the group in 2010. In interviews, he shares how he took space to slow down—spending time at home, working out, reflecting. He released two solo albums during that time and a documentary called The End of Malice. I didn’t follow him that closely. My familiarity with the Clipse mostly came from their smash hit “Grinding.” What I do remember hearing about was how his journey with his Christian faith was influencing his time away.

Now, 15 years later since he first left, that faith seemed deeper and more grounded. A result of time spent reading his Word, with family, and just before the loss of both parents, thinking about if he should return to more mainstream rap.

His brother jokes in an interview that he begged him to come back. Malice raps about asking his dad (a deacon in the church) if he should return. Whatever the final moment of decision was, Malice came back ready for the role he believes he’s been designed to play in his own way.

Who is Malice Becoming?

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Malice is an artist and messenger

For those of us who desire enduring greatness but fear confronting truth, themselves, and God

Who carries a sophisticated and urgent message of transformation

By mirroring our bondage to ego and money, showing us how to walk in truth, and pointing us toward freedom

So that we might all get free and live with peace that surpasses understanding.

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Faith vs Culture

What makes Malice’s return so striking—especially through the eyes of a Christian who has worked in entertainment myself—is how openly he walks the line. A tightrope, really. For years, the relationship between church and culture has swayed: sometimes sharply divided, other times fully blended through awards show speeches, and gospel collabs from Destiny’s Child and Mary Mary to Kirk Frankin and Kanye West.

Things are even more peculiar now.

Christianity is being co-opted as a recruiting tool for conservative agendas. Trump is out here holding Bibles. Debates rage amongst spiritual leaders over who’s a false prophet, pastors are being dissected by YouTubers, and people are trying to sort through what they believe in: The Bible, astrology, crystals, and everything in between.

And then here comes Malice. Reunited with his brother. Known for what some call “cocaine rap.” And yet he’s clear-eyed, grounded, and offering a powerful reminder: this is where Jesus thrives.

In the tension.

In the truth.

In the Word—not religion.

His raps on their new album reflects this. It’s introspective and layered. He weaves in stories of grief, memories of his time as a kingpin, and consistent acknowledgments of God—His freedom, His grace. If anyone’s tempted to ask whether Malice has “backslid” or is glorifying his old life, I’d say: listen more closely. His lyrics ring off as testimony. Rare truth in a world that glorifies deception—in the White House, in pulpits, and hard as it is to admit, in our own homes.

We don’t hear truth that much anymore.

There’s no testimony service in megachurches. Pastors motivate us with polished words, but rarely with the grit of their own deliverance. But if you close your eyes and imagine the raw testimony of a man who once believed greatness meant being a drug kingpin—then discovered the real path was Christ—you begin to see something far more important.

And if you needed even more confirmation of where Malice is, just watch the interviews. There are so many. At a time when most rappers are skipping media altogether—I didn’t see a single Travis Scott interview during his album rollout—the Clipse were everywhere.

But they weren’t just talking. They were saying something.

Malice, especially, waited his turn. And when he spoke, he gave sermons. On Jesus. On freedom. On grace. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t fold. He stood firm in his authority. It was powerful to witness—for anyone wondering what it looks like to be bold in what you believe.

The Truth that Makes Us Free

There are a lot of lessons in this season. But maybe the most urgent one is this:

This moment requires us to stand in OUR truth. To fill the gap only we can fill. To stop avoiding the tension, the contradictions, the conflict—because that’s where the most interesting things live. If we want to become in this season, we have to speak the truth as loudly as we’ve named the lies. We’re in a battleground for belief. If only lies are loud, how will anyone recognize the truth when it shows up?

So speak your truth. In rooms. In homes. In hallways. Online.

In all its glory—even when it’s “culturally inappropriate.”

In community,

Kevin