The Tribune

By IVOINE INGRAHAM

THE CHURCH is quieter now. Not just on Sunday mornings, but in spirit as well. The pews that once groaned under the weight of faithful bodies now echo with absence, and the silence raises a question many are afraid to ask aloud: what happened?

We were raised differently.

Church was not optional, not negotiable, and certainly not convenient. Sunday meant three services, morning worship, Sunday school, and evening service, punctuated by prayer meetings, Bible study, youth fellowship, choir rehearsal, and whatever else the church calendar demanded. Attendance was not driven by mood, but by duty. We went because our parents went, and they went because their parents had gone before. Church was woven into the rhythm of life.

For our forefathers, the church was more than a building. It was a refuge. In a hostile world, the church was a place of safety, dignity, and belonging. It was where burdens were shared, where dignity was restored, where hope was preached to people who had little reason to hope elsewhere. Faith was not flashy, but it was steady. It didn’t promise riches, but offered refuge. It didn’t sell miracles, but cultivated endurance.

The church was an oasis for the broken spirit.

Over time, however, habit replaced hunger. Many attended out of routine rather than conviction. We feared breaking tradition more than we feared losing truth. We memorised scripture, not always to live it, but to prove we belonged. Quietly, without realising it, we began following men as much as we followed the Master. Instructions from the pastor began to carry the same weight as the gospel itself. Questioning became dangerous. Obedience became confused with loyalty.

That tension--between loyalty to leadership and obedience to Christ--now sits at the heart of the church’s crisis.

The church that once spoke boldly for Christ as merciful, forgiving, and compassionate has, in too many places, become something else entirely. Manipulation and exploitation have crept in under the banner of faith. Weakness, once met with tenderness, is now monetised. Brokenness—once treated with care, is now mined for revenue.

Now it’s “lights, camera, action.”

Charismatic performances have replaced soul-searching, and high drama substitutes for repentance. Worship services resemble productions, complete with choreographed dancers, expensive sound systems, LED screens, smoke machines, and perfectly timed crescendos designed to manufacture emotion. The atmosphere is electrifying, but the spirit is often untouched. People leave feeling entertained, even inspired, but not transformed.

The original church—quiet, grounded, deeply spiritual--has been swallowed by a Las Vegas–style spectacle. Bright lights have replaced deep light. Noise has replaced stillness. Ambiguous messaging makes people feel good, but rarely calls them to grow, repent, or change. Conviction has been replaced with comfort. Charisma has replaced character.

And with spectacle has come branding.

Churches now speak fluently in the language of marketing. Logos, slogans, social media strategies, and follower counts dominate priorities. Popularity is mistaken for faithfulness. “Likes,” “shares,” and “views” are treated as evidence of impact. The gospel is trimmed and softened to maintain audience retention. Hard truths are avoided. Sin is renamed as struggle. Repentance is optional. The message is designed not to disturb the conscience, but to preserve attendance.

Egos are being fed.

Pastors are no longer simply shepherds. Many have become celebrities. They are styled, promoted, defended, and insulated. Their words are scrutinised less than their image is protected. In some churches, the pastor’s authority is absolute. Boards exist in name only. Accountability is treated as an attack. Dissent is labelled rebellion.

“Touch not the Lord’s anointed” is weaponised, not as a call to respect, but as a gag order.

This unchecked power creates fertile ground for exploitation, especially of the vulnerable. In too many churches, tithes have been stretched into second and third offerings, “seed sowing,” “sacrificial giving,” and “prophetic pledges.” The language is spiritual, but the outcome is financial. Single mothers, the unemployed, the elderly, and the desperate are urged to give beyond reason, beyond wisdom, and beyond their means.

And the promise is always the same: a miracle is coming.

Give your last dollar and expect a breakthrough. Sow a seed and wait for a return. The mechanics resemble a lottery more than faith. Desperation is baptised as belief. Hope is leveraged as currency. The giver’s uncertainty is cloaked in scripture, while the collector’s certainty is hidden behind the pulpit.

When the promised miracles do not come, the blame quietly shifts back to the giver: you didn’t believe enough. Faith becomes a performance metric. Meanwhile, leadership lifestyles continue to ascend. Luxury vehicles, lavish homes, designer clothing, and conspicuous comfort stands in stark contrast to the gospel being preached. Humility gives way to display. Servanthood gives way to celebrity. The shepherd begins to resemble a CEO.

This is not merely financial exploitation. It is spiritual betrayal.

The church was meant to be a hospital for the wounded, not a marketplace for miracles. It was meant to be an oasis for the broken spirit, not a well where the thirsty are charged admission to drink. Christ never charged the desperate with hope. He never promised financial returns in exchange for obedience. He warned against loving money. He overturned tables when faith became commerce.

And yet, here we are.

Even more troubling is how conflict is handled. When disagreements arise, as they inevitably do, the fractures are public and ugly. The church, which should model forgiveness and reconciliation, instead erupts in gossip, lawsuits, factionalism, and power struggles. Congregations split. Members are publicly shamed. Dirty laundry is aired for all to see. The witness is damaged beyond repair.

The contradiction is glaring: a community preaches love while practicing hostility; that teaches forgiveness while harbouring resentment; that calls people to be Christlike while behaving no differently than the gangsters on the street.

What are the sheep supposed to do when the shepherds fight like wolves?

We are told to forgive, to turn the other cheek, to be examples for the weak among us. But when leaders abandon these principles, confusion replaces confidence. Faith becomes fragile. Trust erodes. People withdraw, not from God, but from the institution that claims to represent Him.

Everyone needs an oasis, a place to run when spiritually weak or starved. But if the place we run to is riddled with holes, how can we rest?

How can we drink from a well we suspect is poisoned?

This conversation simmers quietly among believers who are afraid to speak. The warning is always implicit: don’t ask too many questions. Discernment is rebranded as disloyalty. Accountability is framed as persecution. Silence becomes the price of belonging.

But what happened to truth spoken in love? What happened to the courage to say, “this is not right”?

We often romanticise “that old time religion,” but perhaps religion itself has become the problem. Rules, rituals, hierarchy, and spectacle have swallowed Christianity whole. Christ’s message was never about accumulation or applause. It was about humility, service, sacrifice, and love. He washed feet. He ate with outcasts. He lifted the broken without exploiting their pain.

Today, however, charity is shrinking, while self-interest thrives. The mission to “feed the sheep” has been overshadowed by the desire to fleece them.

It is deeply troubling how many church leaders now chase political influence, court government favour, pursue land and assets, and entangle the church in power games. Some justify this as an expansion of the ministry, but the outcomes suggest otherwise. The church begins to resemble a corporation chasing assets rather than a body tending souls.

Scripture, when stripped of context and conscience, can justify almost anything. But honesty remains the one thing that could calm all seas. Transparency would heal more wounds than a thousand sermons. Integrity would restore trust faster than any revival campaign.

The mystery of dwindling worship is no mystery at all. People are not rejecting Christ; they are rejecting hypocrisy. They are not abandoning faith, they are fleeing exploitation. They are weary of being told to give while watching others take. Tired of being preached at while being talked about. Tired of the silence where accountability should be.

By no means is this an indictment of all pastors or all churches. There are faithful, humble shepherds who serve quietly and sincerely. They visit the sick without cameras. They give without applause. They lead without entitlement. They recoil from recognition and shrink from praise. These servants still exist.

But the noise increasingly drowns them out.

The church was meant to be a refuge, not a showroom. A sanctuary, not a stage. A place where mercy is practiced, forgiveness is lived, and the broken are restored, not harvested.

If the church is to survive, not as an institution, but as a living witness, it must ask itself an uncomfortable question: Are we following the pastor, or are we following the Master?

Until that question is answered honestly, the pews will continue to empty. And the silence will only grow louder.