The Tribune

By IVOINE INGRAHAM

MANY churches are in the business of saving souls, feeding the hungry, helping the needy, clothing the naked, and sheltering the homeless. They go above and beyond, providing soup kitchens, home visits, and even support when needed.

On the other hand, some churches spring up with fancy signage. They are not attached to an established church organisation, so they are short-lived. They are popping up in the inner city, where the ground is fertile for exploitation.

The people are vulnerable and, in many cases, at the lower rung of the ladder. These kinds of churches attract people who want “something for nothing” or can be easily tricked into “betting on the pastor.” So they give their last, sowing a seed that lands on concrete and never grows. Desperation soon raises its head, because after feeling fleeced, they find ways to vent their frustration.

At one time, many people understood worship in relatively simple terms: a congregation gathered, Scripture was read, hymns were sung, prayers were offered, and someone attempted, however imperfectly, to proclaim the Word of God. The minister was important, but not the attraction. The church was not a theatre, the pulpit wasnot a throne, and the congregation was not an audience assembled to admire a religious celebrity.

Something has changed in parts of modern Christianity.

Walk into certain churches today, and the experience can resemble a carefully choreographed production. The lighting is immaculate. The music swells at precisely the right moment. Cameras glide across the sanctuary. Giant screens magnify the preacher. Assistants move with rehearsed precision. Titles are announced. Distinguished guests are recognized. The leader's entrance may draw the kind of anticipation once reserved for the start of a stage performance.

None of these things is inherently sinful. Excellence is not corruption. Technology is not apostasy. Music, beauty, organization and passionate preaching can all serve worship.

The danger begins when they stop serving worship and worship starts serving them. Then church becomes spectacle. When spectacle combines with unchecked authority, desperate people, promises of prosperity, and demands for money, something far more troubling emerges: faith itself can become a weapon against vulnerability.

The family business called “church”

One particularly disturbing model is the church that gradually becomes indistinguishable from a family enterprise. The founder is at the top. The spouse occupies another powerful position. Sons and daughters preach, administer or inherit authority. Brothers, sisters, cousins, in-laws and trusted family friends occupy strategic offices. Leadership becomes concentrated within a bloodline, while ordinary members are expected to finance the institution and show unquestioning loyalty to those in control.

Again, there is nothing automatically wrong with members of one family serving in ministry. Scripture itself contains families involved in God's work. The problem is not kinship. The problem is accountability. Who corrects the leader when nearly everyone with institutional power owes their position to the leader? Who examines the finances? Who can say no? Who can ask why church resources are being spent a certain way without suddenly being accused of rebellion, jealousy or spiritual disloyalty?

A church should be a community of believers. It becomes dangerous when it operates like a private corporation whose shareholders are one family and whose customers are called members. The language remains spiritual, but the structure can become dynastic.

Titles, thrones and the hunger for importance

Then comes the obsession with titles. “Pastor” is apparently insufficient. “Bishop” is added. “Apostle” follows. “Prophet” may come next. “Archbishop, presiding prelate, chief apostle, doctor, spiritual father, general overseer” . . . the vocabulary can become almost endless.

A title, of course, does not prove corruption. Christian traditions have used ecclesiastical titles for centuries. But when titles accumulate as symbols of superiority, entitlement, and financial expectation, we should ask what happened to the servant model Jesus represented when He washed His disciples' feet. The title can become leverage. Greater title, greater authority. Greater authority, greater access. Greater access, greater offerings. Greater offerings, greater lifestyle. Eventually, people may be taught that how they treat the leader determines how God will treat them.

The servant becomes royalty. The shepherd becomes celebrity. The congregation becomes a marketplace.

And somewhere amid the elaborate introductions, honorary chairs, reserved parking spaces, entourages, anniversaries, appreciation offerings and birthday celebrations, one question struggles to be heard:

Where is “Thus saith the Lord”?

That question should haunt modern Christianity.

Not: What did the prophet say?

Not: What did the bishop declare?

Not: What did the apostle decree?

Rather: What does God require?

The perfect audience: desperate people

The prosperity machinery works best when it reaches people who desperately need hope. The unemployed father does not need another lecture about money. He needs hope.

The mother facing eviction needs hope. The woman drowning in debt needs hope.

The businessman whose company is collapsing needs hope.

The widow watching her savings disappear needs hope.

The young person wondering whether life will ever improve needs hope.

These are not foolish people. They are vulnerable people. And vulnerability deserves compassion, not exploitation.

But desperation can make extraordinary promises sound reasonable: Give this amount and expect a breakthrough. Sow into this ministry and your business will prosper. Plant a seed for your children. Give an unusual offering for an unusual miracle. Sow according to the size of the harvest you expect.

Suddenly, the offering plate begins to resemble an investment portfolio with God presented as the guarantor. This transforms giving from an act of generosity into a transaction.

The vulnerable person is encouraged to think: If I give $100, perhaps God will give me $1,000. If I sacrifice $1,000, perhaps the contract will come. Perhaps the mortgage will be paid. Perhaps the business will recover. Faith becomes spiritual venture capital. And the church becomes the Greatest Show on Earth.

When the return never comes

But what happens when nothing happens? That question receives far less attention. What happens to the woman who gave money she could barely afford because she was told to expect supernatural financial release, and no release came? What happens to the man who repeatedly “sowed” into somebody else's prosperous ministry while his own electricity was disconnected? What happens when years pass and the promised breakthrough never arrives? The psychological consequences can be devastating.

Some people blame themselves. Maybe my faith was too weak. Maybe I spoke negatively. Maybe I did not sow enough. Maybe a curse is over my family. So the person already financially wounded acquires another wound: spiritual shame.

Some fall into despair or depression. Others quietly abandon church. Some even conclude that God rejected them, when perhaps what failed them was not God at all but a religious sales pitch that God never authorized.

Something is deeply troubling about a system that presents the preacher's prosperity as evidence the message works while blaming the struggling giver's poverty on insufficient faith. The preacher wins either way. If you prosper, the prophecy worked. If you do not prosper, you lacked faith. That is not accountability. It is an almost unfalsifiable system of control.

Theatre is powerful

Modern religious theatre can be psychologically potent precisely because it understands human emotion. Music can soften resistance. Repetition can create expectation. Crowds can intensify emotion. Testimonies can make exceptional outcomes appear normal. Public declarations can generate social pressure. A charismatic speaker can move hundreds or thousands of people simultaneously.

None of those mechanisms proves that an experience is false. Human beings naturally experience faith through emotion, community, music and ritual.

But emotional intensity does not prove divine authority. A person can cry without encountering God. A crowd can shout without receiving truth. A preacher can be charismatic without being Christlike. And a packed sanctuary can be spiritually empty.

The danger arises when the entire environment is engineered to lower people's critical resistance and then, at the emotional peak, demand money. The wounded person did not come looking for entertainment. He came looking for healing. She did not come to become a customer. She came looking for God. That vulnerability is sacred territory. Anyone who deliberately exploits it commits more than a financial wrong. It is a betrayal of trust.

“Touch Not the Lord's Anointed”

Perhaps no phrase has been more useful for insulating questionable religious leadership from scrutiny than that one. It can be deployed like a spiritual weapon.

Do not question the pastor.

Do not criticize the prophet.

Do not challenge the bishop.

Do not investigate the finances.

Do not speak publicly about what happened.

Do not “put your mouth” on the man or woman of God.

The implication is frighteningly simple: criticize the leader and God may punish you.

For someone who sincerely believes in divine judgment, that threat can be enormously powerful. Yet accountability is not persecution. Asking where the money went doesn't attack God. Questioning a failed prophecy is not blasphemy. Reporting abuse is not rebellion. Examining teaching against Scripture is not disrespect.

If religious authority cannot withstand questions, the problem may not be the questions.

Ironically, some people who have been fleeced remain silent precisely because their faith is genuine. They fear offending God. They have been conditioned to equate loyalty to a leader with loyalty to Christ. That confusion must be broken.No preacher owns God.

The scramble for position

Once ministry becomes associated with money, prestige and celebrity, another predictable development occurs: people jostle for position. Everyone wants a platform. Everyone wants a microphone. Everyone wants ordination. Everyone wants a title. Everyone wants followers.

And the church can begin reproducing the very status culture Christianity was supposed to challenge. The question is no longer, “Where can I serve?” It becomes, “Where can I sit?” Who gets the front seat? Who travels with the bishop? Who gets invited to preach? Whose photograph appears on the flyer? Who receives an honorarium? Who gets introduced first?

When religious position produces financial and social rewards, ambition can easily disguise itself as calling.

Yet the church is not a fraud

This criticism must not become another form of dishonesty. There are genuine Christians. Some pastors quietly serve congregations without becoming wealthy. Ministers visit hospitals when cameras are absent, feed people without posting photographs, counsel broken families, help children, bury the dead, comfort the grieving, and give from their own pockets. Some Christians sincerely try to become Christlike.

That is a tall order. They fail. They struggle. They sometimes contradict the very Gospel they proclaim. But they continue trying to follow Jesus rather than merely benefiting from His name.

And then there are those simply along for the ride.

Every religious movement attracts a mixture of motives: faith, ambition, fear, community, opportunity, tradition, genuine service, and sometimes greed. Christianity is no exception. The task, therefore, is not to condemn every church because some churches exploit people. It is to recover discernment.

Bring back “Thus Saith the Lord”

Perhaps modern Christianity needs less glamour and more Gospel. Less choreography and more character. Less celebrity and more service. Less obsession with titles and more concern for truth. Less fundraising theatre and more transparency. Less fear of leaders and more reverence for God.

A church should never require its members to surrender their intellect. Genuine faith does not fear examination. Genuine spiritual leadership does not need intimidation to preserve authority. Genuine generosity does not require promises of spectacular financial returns. And a genuine shepherd should tremble at the thought of exploiting wounded sheep.

Jesus did not tell His followers to turn human desperation into a revenue stream. The Christian message cannot simply be: sow into me, and God will make you rich. Sometimes faith means giving. Sometimes it means sacrifice. Sometimes it means enduring circumstances that do not miraculously disappear. Sometimes there is no mansion, promotion, contract, cheque or sudden breakthrough. The cross itself should have cured Christianity of the idea that faithfulness always produces material comfort.

So let the lights shine. Let the choir sing. Let technology serve the message. Let churches pursue excellence. Let gifted communicators communicate with power.

But when the smoke clears, the music stops, and the cameras are switched off, one question remains: was Christ proclaimed—or was a personality promoted?

If vulnerable people leave poorer while leaders become richer, ask questions.

If leadership questions are treated as questions about God, ask more questions.

If every spiritual solution eventually requires another financial seed, ask harder questions.

If one family controls the pulpit, finances, administration and succession, insist on accountability.

And if the greatest evidence offered for a ministry's divine favour is the wealth, titles and lifestyle of the person at its centre, remember the carpenter from Nazareth.

Christianity does not need a Greatest Show on Earth. It needs truth. It needs compassion.

It needs accountability. Do checks and balances in these churches pop up for a few months or years, collect people's money supposedly to help others, then the so-called church shuts down, and the pastor is nowhere to be found? When is there going to be some meaningful investigation about shysters who set out to exploit naive and vulnerable people?

It needs leaders who understand that sheep are not customers, desperation is not a business opportunity, and the Gospel is not merchandise.

Above all, amid the applause, titles, declarations, promises and demands for money, the church must recover the question it should never have stopped asking: What saith the Lord?