You know the type – they sing too loud,
Their hands are raised above the crowd.
They “Hallelujah!” on repeat,
Then post it live with shaky beat.
Their phone more saved than even them.
They dance with joy at every song,
Then criticise the choir’s wrong.
They hug the pastor, front and bold,
Then mutter gossip cold as gold.
“Amen,” they end – then cause new beef.
They wear their Sunday suit all week,
“God’s warrior!” their bio speaks.
They bless your home, then praise your chair,
They judge your phone and braided hair.
Their prayers? Loud. Their patience? Thin.
But still we smile – they mean no harm,
Their drama hides a certain charm.
They bring the life, the spice, the flair,
And keep the ushers in slight scare.
Without them, church might feel too dull,
So when they shout we chant and pull.
We nod and say, “That’s just their thing”,
Their spirit’s loud, their fashion bold.
But church needs spice – it keeps the fold.
THAT ONE CHURCH MEMBER
