The Church of Holy Side-Eye

Beloved saints and sanctified gossips, lend me your ears.

Oh wait, you already lent them to the choir of whispers in the parking lot.

Let us begin today’s sermon with the Book of Hypocrisy, Chapter 1, Verse Immediately After Service:

“And lo, the people walked out of the sanctuary, and instantly judged one another with the fury of a thousand Pharisees.”

Some of you left that pew glowing like Moses fresh off the mountain, only to turn into spiritual paparazzi before the choir’s final “Amen” stopped echoing. Don’t deny it — you saw Sister Clara’s hat and decided it was bigger than her faith. You clocked Brother Michael’s handshake with the pastor and concluded there must be scandal in the sanctuary. Saints, that wasn’t discernment — that was drama.

I see you. The Holy Spirit sees you. Even the pigeons on the steeple see you.

Oh, you think you’re holy? Please. You’re holy like Swiss cheese — full of holes and stinking if left out too long.

Here’s the truth you don’t want to hear: you don’t need Satan to tempt you, because you are Satan’s temp. He calls you in every Sunday, says, “I’m taking the day off — Brenda’s got it covered.” You’re not resisting the devil; you’re doing his paperwork.

You leave the altar praying, “Lord, make me more like You,” and five minutes later you’re muttering, “Lord, did You see what she was wearing?” Double-minded much? Even the devil’s embarrassed for you.

And let’s not forget your holy phrases — “God bless you, sister!” (Translation: I hope you trip on the church steps.) “Praise the Lord, brother!” (Translation: I’m watching you, sinner.) You’ve turned blessings into daggers and wrapped poison in scripture. Bravo. Shakespeare wishes he wrote plots like yours.

But here’s the gospel truth: heaven doesn’t have VIP seats for side-eyes and sanctified slander. There is no “Well done, thou good and judgmental servant.” If you keep this up, you won’t hear “Enter in.” You’ll hear, “Exit out.”

So repent, ye holy hypocrites! Drop your magnifying glass. Retire from your unpaid detective agency. Let Brother James have his BMW without accusing him of money laundering. Let Sister Clara’s hat be between her and her milliner. And for the love of all things sacred, let ripped jeans live in peace.

Because holiness is not how high you lift your hands in the sanctuary — it’s how low you bow your heart in the parking lot.

Now go forth, children of the Most High, and sin no more… at least not until after Sunday lunch.