Let me paint the scene.
You’re 19 years old. You’re broke. Your baby hasn’t eaten in 24 hours. You do the thing everyone says to do when you’re in crisis. You reach out.
Not to the state.
Not to your dealer.
Not to a GoFundMe account with a blurry photo and a dash of desperation in the caption.
You call… a church.
The very institution that for two thousand years has claimed to be the hands and feet of a guy who turned water into wine and fish into an all-you-can-eat Galilean buffet.
You dial. The baby cries in the background—loudly. The kind of cry that melts faces in Target checkout lines. You explain your situation in one shaky breath: “I just need one can of formula. Anything. Please.”
And what does the church say?
No.
Or worse: “We don’t do that kind of ministry.”
Enter Nikalie.
Tatted up. Sharp-eyed. Army veteran. Kentucky-born lesbian with a sound machine and the audacity to believe that maybe, just maybe, someone who shouts “Jesus is Lord” from the pulpit should be willing to fork over $17.99 for Similac.
Over the course of five days, Nikalie Monroe (@nikalie.monroe on TikTok) has called 43 houses of worship with this simple test: “Will you feed a crying baby?”
So far, only 10 have said yes. And of those 10, half were non-Christian.
That’s right: the Buddhists and Muslims came through.
The Church of Love and Light and Free Coffee did not.
The internet is aghast.
“How could churches turn her away?!”
I’ll tell you how.
Because they’ve always turned people away.
If you grew up in the wet concrete of fundamentalist Christianity—like I did—then this isn’t shocking. This is Tuesday. This is Vacation Bible School with a Kool-Aid smile and a “God helps those who help themselves” sermon baked into the altar call.
We were raised in churches that had 10,000 square feet of carpet but no money for groceries. We passed collection plates for missionaries in Guatemala while Carl down the street couldn’t afford gas to get to work. We tithed faithfully while ignoring the single mom in the third pew who hadn’t eaten breakfast in two days.
And the formula? Oh baby, that’s a government issue.
Or worse: a moral failing.
Because to give formula would be to condone sex outside of marriage, or enable laziness, or reward the undeserving. Because deep down, many churches don’t practice Christianity. They practice Conditional Charity™.
Do you believe what we believe?
Are you willing to attend service this Sunday?
Are you drug-free, marriage-bound, heterosexual, and sufficiently grateful?
If not: God bless. We’ll pray for you.
Good luck with that crying infant.
What Nikalie is doing isn’t just prank content. It’s a liturgy of exposure.
She’s revealing that when the sacred rubber meets the suffering road, the institutions built on compassion stall like a used Honda in the Mojave.
This is real-time theology.
This is sacred auditing.
This is the Sermon on the Mount, but make it TikTok.
And instead of beatitudes, we get automated phone trees.
Instead of loaves and fishes, we get “we’re not equipped for that kind of request.”
The Muslims said yes.
The Buddhists said yes.
A few small, strange Christian churches said yes, too.
Let’s not ignore that. There is compassion out there. But it’s not where the branding is loudest. It’s not always where the steeples are tallest.
It’s in the quiet yes.
The humble “Of course, where are you?”
The voice on the other end that doesn’t ask, “Are you a member?”
But simply says, “We’ve got you.”
If you’re surprised by these results, you weren’t paying attention.
If you’re appalled, good.
And if you still think the church is where hungry people should turn first—go ahead and call one. Just one. Right now. Ask for a can of formula.
Let me know how it goes.
Because here’s the kicker:
In a country where the government is actively trying to slash SNAP and food assistance, the same folks doing the slashing are telling people to “go ask a church.” You know—those tax-free temples of compassion we’re all supposedly supporting with public silence and private subsidies. The institutions legally shielded from taxation because they’re supposed to be doing the kind of work Nikalie is asking for. The irony isn’t just rich—it’s federally subsidized.