In that Miami house where the thermostat was stuck on “Pentecost Heat Advisory” and the cheesecake multiplied like the loaves and fishes, the Golden Girls carried the Gospel with the chaotic holiness of four women who had survived heartbreak, hurricanes, and Stan showing up like a walking Book of Lamentations. Dorothy marched through the living room like a prophetess of Mount Sinai, calling down fire on foolishness with a glare so anointed it could rebuke demons, bill collectors, and Blanche’s wardrobe choices. When she said “Ma,” angels straightened their robes, the atmosphere shifted, and even Stan’s toupee trembled under conviction. She carried the truth of Christ with the authority of someone who had personally graded the Dead Sea Scrolls and found grammatical errors. Rose floated in like a cloud of holy innocence, glowing with the purity of a Bethlehem sunrise dipped in Minnesota confusion. Her compassion radiated so strongly that plants revived, pets behaved, and even Stan felt the urge to apologize for things he hadn’t done yet. Her St. Olaf stories were parables from a spiritual dimension where logic was optional and dairy was mandatory. Miles followed behind her like a gentle disciple, nodding with the patience of a man who had accepted his divine calling to interpret Rose’s parables for the rest of humanity. Blanche sashayed in like the Song of Solomon dipped in revival oil and glitter. She carried redemption with the confidence of a woman forgiven seventy times seven before brunch. Her testimony was a 14‑chapter saga involving men named Rex, Beau, and “Sweet Daddy Magnolia.” She loved boldly like Jesus touching the untouchable, except Blanche touched the touchable, the questionable, and the “Ma’am, that man is a bishop.” Her joy was resurrection power in heels so high they required angelic stabilization. Sophia stormed in like a Sicilian Elijah, purse swinging like a prophetic weapon forged in the fires of Mount Etna. Her wisdom was ancient as Genesis and sharp as a two‑edged sword dipped in holy marinara. When she said “Picture it,” Heaven paused, leaned in, and took notes. And then there was Stan—stumbling in like a parable about patience. His presence tested Dorothy’s sanctification daily, yet even he carried a strange Gospel lesson: persistence, humility, and the courage of a man whose toupee had been slain in the Spirit more times than he had. Together they were a divine sitcom, a revival meeting, a Gospel wrapped in sass, cheesecake crumbs, and Stan’s questionable decisions. And Jesus looked down, laughed, clapped, and said, “These are my people
