I step into our neighborhood mosque for Friday prayer, but three local retirees have already marked the territory. The mosque belongs to Allah, yet these neighborhood elders act as if they hold the legal deed to the property. I call them the unpaid sheriffs. They spend their mornings meddling in basic administration and scolding children. By night, they pick apart every worshipper’s mistakes. They do not care about Allah’s approval; they care about their own comfort.

The front row is their private domain. When the congregation stands, these men can barely lift themselves without leaning heavily on their knees. Yet an hour before the call to prayer, their prayer beads, folded handkerchiefs, or caps sit on the carpet. They reserve their plots early. Last month, I saw a young man sit in one of those spots by mistake. The elders glared at him until he moved, treating him like a land grabber.

They run the place like a self-appointed supreme council. They decide when the air conditioner turns on, what temperature it holds, and which ceiling fans stay off. If a young boy complains about the heat, they accuse him of weak faith. When an elder gets a chill, he coughs loudly during the middle of the prayer until someone turns off the unit.

They treat the Imam and the Muezzin like hired hands. If the recitation runs long, the elders complain about aching knees. If the Imam shortens the prayer, they issue immediate decrees that he ruined the service. During the sermon, I watch them check their watches to count the exact minutes spent on a topic rather than listen to the message.

These men drive young people out of the building. When a child whispers or smiles in the back, an elder barks at him with full force. That child never returns.

We must let Allah’s house remain His house. A mosque demands humility, not post-retirement posturing. If these men spent as much time fixing their own habits as they do criticizing other people’s prayers, their own worship might finally mean something.