I arrived at the interdenominational bake-off fully convinced it would be the peaceful equivalent of Isaiah’s vision of the wolf lying down with the lamb—except with frosting. Instead, it turned out to be closer to the Book of Judges, only with Bundt cakes and buttercream
The Baptists came first, lugging in a twelve-layer chocolate cake that they swore had been baked without dancing, cards, or alcohol. “It’s pure,” they said, as though Hershey’s cocoa had been sanctified at Pentecost. Then the Methodists swept in with a tray of low-fat bran muffins, still steaming with the aroma of compromise. Their motto: “A little sugar, a little grace—nothing too extreme.”
The Presbyterians entered quietly, setting down their Calvinist shortbread. Each piece had been pre-destined to crumble in exactly the same way. They assured us that some cookies had been elected to survive the judging, but most were foreordained to be consumed by the hungry toddlers lurking underfoot.
Meanwhile, the Pentecostals arrived with cupcakes so overloaded with sprinkles they looked like edible fireworks. They waved their frosting bags in the air as though the Spirit itself had descended in buttercream tongues. The judging stalled for fifteen minutes while they all simultaneously testified about the power of cream cheese icing.
The Catholics processed in last, bringing what they called a “transubstantiated tiramisu.” Nobody was quite sure if the espresso had actually turned into the blood of Christ, but we all politely nodded and pretended it was very profound.
Somewhere between the Episcopalian quiche (technically not a baked good, but nobody dared correct them) and the Lutheran Jell-O mold (which, ironically, required no baking at all), chaos erupted. The Baptists accused the Catholics of spiking the mascarpone with sherry. The Presbyterians lectured everyone on the sovereignty of yeast. The Pentecostals began laying hands on the Bundt cake, shouting for it to rise higher, while the Methodists apologized for existing and offered gluten-free crackers as reparations.
I, in my naivety, had brought a humble apple pie, thinking it might symbolize unity: one fruit, many slices, all held together in flaky fellowship. Instead, it was dissected theologically. The Presbyterians insisted the apples represented fallen humanity. The Catholics saw Marian symbolism in the lattice crust. The Baptists denounced the cinnamon as “worldly.” The Pentecostals tried to anoint it with oil.
The judges, after much debate (and some muttered imprecations that did not sound entirely Christlike), declared the winner to be the Quakers, who hadn’t even baked anything. They just brought a basket of plain oats and a pamphlet on simplicity. Somehow, in the midst of our sugared denominational arms race, they alone had managed to capture the true spirit of peace.
As we all shuffled out, frosting-stained and resentful, I couldn’t help but conclude: if unity in the body of Christ ever comes, it will not be through doctrine, politics, or bake-offs. It will come only when we can all agree that store-bought cookies are good enough. Until then, we shall remain divided—by layers, flavors, and the great buttercream schism of 2025.
