I recently listened to a podcast where several white men cited their main complaint about Sinners as the final scene—specifically, the moment when Smoke kills Klansmen. But is that really the “sin” we’re meant to focus on?

Religion has always been an important part of my life. At the same time, it has also been a source of deep confusion. As a young girl, I remember wrestling with the idea that all of my friends who were not Christians would burn in hell—that they were sinning simply by existing outside of my faith. I struggled to reconcile how a kind, loving God could punish people for not knowing or abandoning a religion, especially when they were simply believing what their parents taught them, just as I was.

I grew up Baptist, attending church every Sunday, starting with Sunday School, and Vacation Bible School was a nonnegotiable summer staple. While my family wasn’t overly religious, we did have a strong spiritual foundation. Sin—brimstone and fire—was a cornerstone of the preaching then, so the concept is deeply familiar to me.

Over the years, my spiritual path has taken me through many traditions and teachings: Egyptian philosophy, Rastafarianism, the Koran, the Black Israelites, and eventually back to the Baptist roots where I began. I was always trying to make sense of what everyone was saying regarding sin. Some teachings resonated deeply; others I am still working through.

In the last twenty years, I’ve layered those experiences with insights from voices like Iyanla Vanzant, Brené Brown, Jen Sincero, The Secret, Neville Goddard, and Abraham Hicks. Because of this, I see sin very differently now.

But, it was Iyanla Vanzant who introduced me to the idea that SIN stands for self-inflicted nonsense. That framing has stayed with me. The notion that we might be imposing societal standards on ourselves in ways that cause harm or punishment feels exactly like that—nonsensical. It reminds me of self-sabotage: the ways we cope with guilt, feelings of unworthiness, a sense of not being enough, or unresolved pain from the past. And I can’t help but wonder—is this what Ryan Coogler is pointing to?

In Sinners, every character is grappling with some form of “sin”—adultery, theft, lying, coveting—all seemingly as attempts to soothe their pain or survive their personal struggles.

What I walked away with is that Coogler is saying something profound about desire as self-soothing. About how temptation often shows up as relief. And specifically, how African Americans can sometimes turn against ourselves in the pursuit of acceptance, abundance, and ease—looking to outside forces to provide comfort or salvation. Those forces can feel convincing, especially when they speak our language, whether through Bible verses or familiar songs.

But the film suggests that these escapes—like becoming a vampire—are not real freedom. Even in that altered state, liberation remains elusive. And as the final scene makes painfully clear, even when one fights the supernatural in an attempt to prove they belong in the natural world, there are still very real forces waiting for you there. As African Americans, those forces are unavoidable.

So the question Coogler seems to be asking is this: Is there really peace anywhere?

Sinners could have easily been an extended scene from The Color Purple—where Shug Avery and company laugh, love, dance, and find temporary relief from pain and suffering. But Coogler chose not to tell that story.

In the end, all of the main characters die but one. And while the sole character who dies a natural death appears to have peace in the afterlife, it still isn’t the kind of freedom that allows people to live fully and joyfully together in the real world. Overall, Sinners feels like an Oscar-worthy film. With its depth, symbolism, and layered meaning, I hope those watching are willing to sit with it long enough to truly understand what Coogler is asking us to confront—and which “sins” we’re really willing to examine.