LOST IN THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE

The pastor towered above the congregation, his voice a booming force that shook the very foundation of the stadium-like sanctuary. His gold-chained hands swept through the air like a monarch commanding his court. “If you ain't seein' the Lord’s blessing, honey, you’re not giving enough!” The words struck like a lash. The crowd’s “Amen!” rang out, hopeful, desperate for salvation. The cameras zoomed in on the pastor’s immaculate suit, his gleaming shoes—more than a year’s wages for the congregation below.

Paul, seated in the tech booth behind a computer, shifted uneasily in the velvet-cushioned volunteer chair. His gaze drifted to the family sitting beside him, their silent desperation cutting through the noise of the service. The daughter’s dress was stained, her hair slicked back into a tired braid, thick with grease. Her parents, beside her, wore exhausted smiles, their eyes reflecting a desperate belief that this moment could change everything.

The pastor’s voice boomed again, insistent. “Something good is gonna happen to you today! Just give more, believe more!”

Paul felt a knot pulling his ribs together. He’d heard these words countless times, but today, they felt like ice scraping against his bones. The golden camel around the pastor’s neck caught his eye. The image of the pastor, clinging to his earthly treasures, haunted him, and in that moment, a shadow from a dream he’d had the night before crept into his mind. In the dream, he, too, was cast out of paradise, falling into an endless pit of darkness. The pastor, scrambling as he was denied entry into heaven, his riches useless, his promises of prosperity falling apart. Paul woke in a cold sweat, shaken, disturbed by what he had witnessed.

The offering buckets were passed, filled to the brim with checks and cash. Paul added a few bills to the basket in his pocket, as he always did. It had been a habit—give more, receive more. That had been the logic, hadn't it? The sight of the family beside him, their quiet hope contrasting with the noise of the megachurch, gnawed at him like a stain he couldn't wash away.

The father hesitated before he dropped two crumpled dollars into the offering. Two dollars.

The girl leaned in, her voice barely audible. “Is that enough for food?”

Paul remembered his father’s voice, steady and kind, from the days when they fed the homeless: Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me. It was a lesson Paul had long forgotten, one he had buried under the weight of his own beliefs. But now, with the family’s unspoken plea hanging in the air, their words came crashing back.

The pastor’s gold camel and promises of prosperity were a far cry from the call Paul understood.

“What do you need?” Paul asked, surprised at the sudden question.

The mother, her eyes clouded with exhaustion, whispered, “A doctor for her… and food, if we can.”

Without a second thought, Paul pulled out his phone. He had filmed it all—the pastor’s lavish trips to all-inclusive resorts, champagne in hand, surrounded by luxury and scantily clad women. The footage was damning.

He connected his phone to the church’s PC, queued the video and pressed play. The massive screens flickered, revealing the pastor amid excess, his face flushed with indulgence. The congregation fell silent as the footage played, the images too stark to ignore. The pastor’s eyes widened in horror as he scrambled to control the situation.

“Cut it!” the pastor screamed, his voice cracking.

But it was already too late. Some members shouted in disbelief, others hurried for the exits, their faces twisted in shock. But Paul didn’t flinch. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard as he typed, and the words appeared on the screen:

It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the gates of heaven.

The verse flashed across the room. The message hung in the air like a weight.

He turned to the family, their faces wide-eyed, caught between confusion and fear. Paul placed the offering bucket gently into the father’s hands, the metal cold and unfamiliar.

“Take it,” Paul said, his voice steady and weighted. “You need it more than they do.”

The father’s hands trembled as he looked at the bucket, then back at Paul. “Why?”

Paul’s gaze held his, unwavering. “It’s not about what’s given, but who you’re giving it to.”

The father’s fingers curled around the handle, the silence between them a quiet understanding. Paul pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbling quickly. “Call me,” he said, handing it over. “Whenever you need.”

The father stared at the paper, his expression softening, a glimmer of something else—something hopeful—passing between them.

Just then, the door slammed open, and security flooded in. “You need to leave,” one of them said, grabbing Paul by the arm.

Paul glanced back at the father, who stood frozen, the bucket still in his hands. He didn’t wait for thanks—he nodded, a silent connection lingering.

Paul was thrown onto the pavement in front of the lavish building. He felt nothing but satisfaction as he turned away from a place he once called home.

For the first time, a sense of peace washed over him. He wasn’t walking away from God’s truth. He was walking toward it.

Charlene Almonte was born and raised in the city of Orlando. Follow her on Instagram @charscanon.