By Allen Frederick

Before we dive into the satire, let’s address the elephant in the sanctuary: the modern worship wars. You know the drill—“Don’t sing Bethel,” “Avoid Elevation,” “Hillsong is off-limits.” We’ve built entire liturgical purity tests around who wrote the song, not whether we mean it. We strain out the gnat of affiliation while swallowing the camel of lifeless worship.

And what do we sing instead? Approved hymns and vetted choruses—performed with all the passion of a DMV clerk. We sing “Great Is Thy Faithfulness” while checking our watches. We belt “How Great Thou Art” with hearts that haven’t trembled in years. The problem isn’t the playlist—it’s the posture. We’ve traded consecration for critique, presence for performance, and Spirit-led worship for sanitized approval.

So let’s talk about it. Let’s laugh, weep, and repent. Because the real scandal isn’t the song—it’s the sanctuary that sings without surrender.

We love to sing. We love to sway. We love to raise our hands—so long as the air conditioning is working and the service ends before kickoff. Our hymnals are full of promises, but our pews are full of abiding on the premises.

“Blessed Assurance”—but the only assurance we seem to have is that we’ll be out of the parking lot in time for lunch.

“Standing on the Promises”—while firmly sitting on the premises, scrolling our phones and checking the clock.

“Just As I Am”—we come just as we are, and we leave just as we were. The only thing that changes is the bulletin in our hand.

“Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee”—our mouths move, but our faces look like mugshots. Joy is in the lyrics, not in the room.

“Just a Closer Walk With Thee”—but only on Sunday between 10 and 12. After that, it’s “We’ll meet again next Sunday”

We call our gathering place a sanctuary. But let’s be honest: the word now conjures images of “sanctuary cities”—places where law is suspended, compromise is protected, and accountability is optional. Have our houses of worship become sanctuaries for sin‑steeped Pharisees, or a place to actually commune with the living God? Judging by the evidence, the former seems more fitting.

Isaiah saw it in his day: “These people draw near with their mouths and honor Me with their lips, but their hearts are far from Me” (Isaiah 29:13). Jesus saw it in His: Pharisees straining gnats while swallowing camels. And we see it in ours: churches that sing about fire but never feel the heat.

Here’s the tragedy: we’ve mistaken noise for anointing, ritual for revival, and performance for presence. We’ve built sanctuaries that shelter our apathy instead of altars that demand our repentance.

But here’s the hope: Christ still knocks. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock” (Revelation 3:20). He’s not asking for another verse of “Just As I Am.” He’s asking for hearts that will actually change.

So let’s stop sprinkling ourselves with hymns and start drowning in holiness. Let’s stop sitting on the premises and start standing on the promises. Because the world doesn’t need another choir—it needs a consecrated people whose lives are the hymn.

It’s time to wake the sleeping saints. Half-hearted devotions won’t survive the fire that’s coming. God isn’t calling for Sunday singers—He’s calling for living sacrifices. The altar is open. The knock is loud. And the time for total consecration is now.

This has been “A View From the Nest.” And that’s the way I see it! What say you?