It began, as many Nigerian scandals now do, with a viral clip. From the glittering stage of COZA, Pastor Biodun Fatoyinbo told his congregation that Apostle Joseph Ayo Babalola, the revered revivalist who founded the Christ Apostolic Church (CAC), “had no money” and left his children poor. Within hours, the outrage was everywhere. CAC’s leadership called the claim a lie. Babalola’s family issued their own statement, warning against dragging a man who built his ministry on prayer and sacrifice into the mud of material comparison.
On the surface, it looked like another church quarrel over historical facts. In truth, it was something far deeper: a flashpoint in the long, quiet marriage between Nigerian Pentecostalism and the worship of wealth. For decades, pastors have trained millions to believe that divine favour can be measured in bank balances, that the size of a man’s miracle is the size of his mansion. It is a theology that has not only reshaped the church but has also helped normalise corruption in every sphere of Nigerian life.
In today’s Nigerian church culture, salvation is not the only product on offer. From the pulpit, affluence is preached as anointing and luxury is sold as legitimacy. CAC is not blameless. Its own leadership crises have stained its moral authority. But Pentecostal celebrity pastors have perfected the formula: lavish lifestyles paraded as sermon illustrations, “seed sowing” framed as an investment scheme, and public theology that sanitises unexplained wealth.
Pastor E.A. Adeboye of the Redeemed Christian Church of God offered a striking example earlier this month when he appealed for ₦1 billion each from ten people and ₦100 million from a hundred more without the slightest call to verify the source of those funds. In a country where politicians, contractors and oil barons routinely plunder the public purse, such an appeal functions as a moral laundering service. All it takes is a tithe envelope and a public altar for suspect billions to be transformed into “kingdom investment.”
This is not a slip of the tongue or a harmless fundraising tactic. It reflects a wider Pentecostal habit of extending spiritual legitimacy to wealth without asking hard questions. Fatoyinbo’s comments struck a nerve because they suggest that a ministry without visible opulence is somehow deficient. CAC’s defence of Babalola may be justified, but it rings hollow unless the church also confronts the wider reality: for decades, Nigerian congregations have been trained to equate cash with calling.
When pastors decline to question the provenance of vast donations, they normalise the belief that money is morally neutral as long as it is “used for God.” This thinking has seeped into Nigeria’s political culture. If stolen billions can buy a front-row seat in church, why should those same billions not buy legitimacy in public office? The sanctuary becomes less a place of worship and more a reputational laundromat.
Fatoyinbo, Adeboye, CAC, they all operate in the same religious economy. One defends a founder’s frugality, another solicits fortunes without scrutiny, but both are participants in a system where spiritual authority and financial display are hopelessly entangled.
If Nigerian Christianity is to break free from its role as a handmaiden of corruption, it must rewrite the script. That means rejecting the wealth-equals-worth theology from the pulpit to the offering basket, making financial transparency non-negotiable by publishing budgets and auditing donations, and refusing the moral laundering of dirty money regardless of how much arrives in the envelope.
Apostle Babalola’s legacy was one of uncompromising faith, not fiscal theatrics. Until today’s church leaders choose the same path and teach their congregations to measure righteousness by integrity, not bank balance, they will remain architects of the very corruption they claim to pray against.
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