A “social experiment” on TikTok has recently gone viral, and it’s cutting deep.
The creator, Nikalie, called dozens of sizable churches posing as a desperate new mother. Her plea was simple: she was in dire need of a single can of formula for her two-month-old baby. The results were stark: most of the Christian and Catholic churches she contacted either refused or redirected her.
Out of 43 calls, only 10 offered help. Those who did included two Black churches, one Islamic center, and one Buddhist temple. In one of the most poignant moments, a Latina receptionist, after explaining that her church’s rules forbid helping non-members, offered to buy the formula for Nikalie with her own money.
This experiment has ignited a fierce public debate, acting like a precision scalpel that has cut through the polished facade of some contemporary religious institutions to reveal a systemic indifference. It raises two critical questions: What does a “pro-life” stance truly mean in practice? And where exactly is the money from the faithful going?
“Pro-Life” vs. “Pro-Birth”
Many religious groups, particularly the large churches featured in the video, are staunch advocates of the “Pro-Life” movement. Based on their doctrines and the concept of life’s sanctity, they argue that life must be protected from the moment of conception, championing the idea that “every baby in the world deserves life.”
Yet, in this experiment, the most common reasons for refusal were: limited funds, limited time, or, most tellingly, “You are not a member.”
If an organization proclaims itself a guardian of life but sets up cold, bureaucratic barriers to providing substantive help to a life already born and in crisis, how is its ideology reflected in its actions? Are they defending “life,” or merely “birth”?
If a church fails at the most basic “Good Samaritan” test of charity—falling short of the personal conscience of a single receptionist—what, then, is its social function? This discrepancy is why many commenters declared that Nikalie wasn’t just conducting a social experiment; she was “doing God’s work.”
One detail from the video stood out: when Nikalie contacted the Islamic center, the receptionist didn’t ask if she was Muslim. They simply asked for her location and the type of formula needed, without even correcting Nikalie’s mistaken use of the word “church” to describe their center.
Where Did the Money Go?
This leads to the other, more practical controversy: Where is the money going? The comment section was flooded with angry congregants. “Please call my church,” many wrote. “We donate regularly, and I’d love to know if they are actually fulfilling their duties.”
In most churches, regular donations (like “tithing,” or giving 10% of one’s income) are considered a congregant’s duty. In the ideal model, these funds maintain church operations (salaries, building upkeep) and support its “ministries”—services for both members and the public. Charity and social service are meant to be a critical part of this. It is precisely because they (allegedly) perform these charitable functions that religious institutions enjoy their enormous tax-exempt status.
But when material aid is tied to membership, “donating” no longer feels like a voluntary offering of faith. Instead, it transforms into an exclusive, “paid-for service.”
This is uncomfortably reminiscent of medieval “indulgences,” where the Roman Catholic Church sold certificates claiming that money could buy absolution from sin. This was one of the core issues Martin Luther fought against during the Protestant Reformation. His doctrine of “justification by faith” (Sola fide) emphasized the purity of belief, not a material transaction.
When a mother who cannot even afford formula is asked if she is a “member,” this systemic paradox is laid bare: the very money meant to help the poor has instead built a wall to keep them out.
This leaves angry donors asking: If our contributions aren’t being used to help people in need, where is all this tax-free money going? If the church’s charitable function has devolved into a “members-only” perk, would the public be better off taxing these institutions and letting the government handle social welfare more effectively?
While the experiment’s sample size is limited, it clearly reveals the rigid, qualification-based restrictions within some church aid systems. It also captures the significant differences in charitable practices among organizations of different racial and religious backgrounds.
Most importantly, it forces us to scrutinize the grand narratives these institutions tell about themselves.
Whether it’s Christianity, Buddhism, or Islam, the original intent of these faiths is to guide people to care for their community. The Latina receptionist who was willing to pay out of her own pocket demonstrates that true empathy and kindness often exist in our shared humanity, far removed from any rigid institutional doctrine.
What we should hope for is a kindness that transcends race, prejudice, rules, and even religion itself. Because in the face of a baby in need, tying charity to a “membership card”—as if it were a Costco or Sam’s Club—is the greatest irony of all.
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