I told myself I wasn’t being judgmental. I convinced myself I was defending something sacred.
When the pastor began his sermon, I tried to listen. He spoke about grace—about welcoming those who seek God with open arms. He mentioned how none of us are perfect and how we all carry visible and invisible marks from our past.
The words felt strangely pointed, though I knew he had no idea what was stirring inside me.
Throughout the sermon, I wrestled with a quiet debate. Maybe she didn’t know how to dress for church. Maybe no one had ever told her. Maybe she simply needed guidance.
Yes, that must be it, I thought. Someone has to speak up.
By the time the final hymn ended and people began gathering their things, I had convinced myself it was my responsibility to protect the atmosphere of our sanctuary. I told myself I was acting out of love for the church. For God.
I waited near the aisle as she stood. She looked around again, perhaps searching for a familiar face. She seemed alone.
I approached her with a polite smile.
“Good morning,” I said, keeping my voice calm and measured.
She smiled back. “Good morning.”
