The Church, Its Comforts, and the Destinies We Could Change

WHAT IF?

The Church, Its Comforts, and the Destinies We Could Change

I attended the funeral of a dear friend who passed away on earlier this year. The funeral took place somewhere in Lagos.

I cannot quite remember whether the church was housed in an elaborate tent or a bungalow. What I remember is that it was not an ostentatious affair.

Nothing about the place suggested an extravagant display of wealth. Yet considerable effort had gone into making the space comfortable and sophisticated. I looked around and noticed the air conditioners. Packaged air-conditioning units. Several of them.

I have encountered places of worship ranging from the modest to the magnificent, from the sprawling auditoriums of Lakewood Church and The Potter’s House in Texas to the historic grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome and Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. Each, in its own way, reflects the considerable resources devoted to creating spaces for worship.

Yet, for reasons I cannot quite explain, it was in this relatively modest church in Ikoyi that I found myself asking a question I had never seriously considered before.

I have seen magnificent buildings, impressive auditoriums, sophisticated sound systems, elaborate lighting, and the full paraphernalia of modern religious worship.

But on this particular occasion, something happened. I began to wonder what Jesus would make of it all.

Not what the church leadership would say. Not what the congregation would say. Not what the building committee would say in defence of its expenditure.

What would Jesus say?

I looked at those air-conditioning units and began to think about the cost of acquiring them, installing them, and keeping them running. The diesel, the generators, the maintenance, the technicians, the electricity, and the eventual replacement of equipment.

And suddenly, the air conditioners became more than air conditioners.

They became a question. A question about priorities, about the Church and its mission, and about the relationship between the resources we consume to maintain our institutions and the destinies we might change if we chose to spend some of those resources differently.

And I began to wonder.

What if?

What Does It Cost to Maintain the Church?

What if we could quantify the total recurring expenditure of churches across Lagos? Not just air conditioning, but generators, sound equipment, lighting, buildings, maintenance, administrative overheads, fleets of SUVs, and the private jets and helicopters used by some prominent religious leaders. Everything.

What if we could put a figure to the amount of money required every month to keep the religious machinery running?

I have no idea what that figure would be. Perhaps it would be less than I imagine. Perhaps considerably more. But I suspect it would be large enough to deserve a serious conversation.

And I am not talking about the money people give in church. I am talking about what the Church spends to maintain itself.

The Comfort of the Sanctuary

I know the arguments. People need to be comfortable when they come to worship God. Churches need good sound systems so people can hear the Word. They need generators because public electricity is unreliable, and air conditioning because Lagos can be unbearably hot.

Churches need buildings, equipment, administrative structures, and money to function. I understand all of that.

I am not suggesting that Christians should worship God in misery, that churches should abandon their buildings, or that every expenditure on comfort is wasteful. That would be a simplistic argument.

But there is a question we rarely ask.

At what point does providing comfort for those who have gathered to worship become more important than providing relief for those who are struggling to survive?

At what point does the maintenance of the institution begin to compete with the mission for which the institution exists? And how would we know if we had crossed that line?

These are questions about proportion, priorities, and whether our expenditure reflects our professed values.

In my latest book, Apprentice Nations, I argue, and I paraphrase here, that budgets are moral documents because they reveal what governments truly value. Every allocation represents a choice between competing priorities: the powerful and the powerless, political convenience and public welfare, wasteful prestige projects and essential services.

Speeches may proclaim concern for the poor, but budgets reveal the truth.

Follow the money and you will discover who matters, what matters, and what kind of nation a government intends to build.

That argument applies just as readily to ecclesiastical institutions.

We sing about the love of God. We preach about compassion. We quote the Scriptures about caring for widows, feeding the hungry, and remembering the poor.

Every Christian knows the familiar hymn: Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me.

But how much of our collective expenditure is devoted to making those things happen?

I do not know. And that, perhaps, is part of the problem. We do not seem particularly interested in asking.

What If We Sat Down Together?

Imagine, for a moment, that the leaders of the various Christian denominations in Lagos agreed to sit around a table. Not to organise a crusade, plan a convention, discuss church growth or membership figures, or consider acquiring another property.

But to examine their expenditure.

The elders, bishops, pastors, accountants, and people who understand the financial workings of our institutions would put the figures on the table.

This is what we spend every month on electricity and diesel. This is what we spend on buildings and maintenance. This is what we spend on administrative overheads, transportation, equipment, and the other costs associated with running our institutions.

They would add everything up and establish what it costs to keep the machinery of organised Christianity running in Lagos.

Then, having established that figure, they would ask another question:

What if we agreed to reduce that expenditure by 25 per cent?

Not by closing churches, abandoning worship, or dismissing the people who work in our institutions, but by examining our spending, eliminating unnecessary extravagance, sharing resources where practical, improving efficiency, and asking whether everything we currently pay for is genuinely necessary.

Twenty-five per cent.

What would that amount to? I do not know. But suppose the savings were substantial.

What could we do with the money?

The Destinies We Could Change

What if we established a fund to support children from poor families who have the ability to learn but cannot afford school fees? What if we provided scholarships, vocational training, apprenticeships, and access to tools for young people willing to work but lacking the means to begin?

What if we helped people acquire the skills necessary to earn a living rather than merely providing occasional assistance when their circumstances became desperate?

We could create programmes to help small businesses survive their first difficult years, establish properly managed microfinance institutions offering responsible financing to people excluded from conventional banking, and invest in productive enterprises that create jobs and generate income.

We could help people establish farms, workshops, small manufacturing businesses, and service enterprises.

What if our churches became centres not only of spiritual instruction but also of practical economic empowerment?

And what if we did these things on a scale that individual congregations could never achieve alone?

Consider the possibilities.

A child who would otherwise have abandoned school completes an education. A young person learns a trade and becomes financially independent. A woman who has struggled for years to sustain a small business obtains the capital and training needed to expand it.

A community gains access to clean water because several churches pool their resources. Unemployed young people receive the equipment and support needed to establish a cooperative enterprise. A family escapes a cycle of poverty that has persisted for generations.

These are not merely charitable transactions.

They are interventions in human destiny.

And the people who benefit are not simply recipients of our generosity. They become producers, employers, taxpayers, parents, innovators, and contributors to the society around them. They acquire the means to help themselves and, in time, help others.

What if this became a central measure of the Church’s success?

Not merely how many people attended our services last Sunday, but how many acquired the means to live with dignity because we were here. Not merely how many buildings we constructed, but how many lives we helped rebuild. Not merely how much money we raised, but how much human potential we released.

And Then, Another 25 Per Cent

Let us suppose we succeeded. The first 25 per cent reduction in expenditure has been implemented without compromising the essential work of our churches.

The lights still come on. Services continue. Pastors still preach. Congregations still gather.

But we have discovered that some things we once considered indispensable were, in fact, negotiable. We have learned to distinguish between what is necessary and what is merely desirable, and that institutional comfort need not require institutional extravagance.

Now, what if we went further?

What if we challenged ourselves to find another 25 per cent in savings, where genuinely achievable? And what if we committed those additional resources to public education, primary healthcare, vocational training, community infrastructure, agricultural development, small and medium-sized enterprises, research, innovation, and housing for vulnerable families?

We could also use our collective influence to press governments to fulfil their responsibilities.

Imagine churches working together to demand functioning public schools, better-equipped hospitals, reliable electricity, decent roads, clean water, and policies that encourage productive enterprise.

Imagine them publishing evidence of neglected public services, organising citizens around specific local problems, and holding elected officials accountable for their promises.

Imagine the Church becoming a formidable advocate for the public good, not because it seeks political power for itself, but because it recognises that the welfare of the people is inseparable from the mission it professes.

There is an important distinction here. The Church should not have to replace the government. Government has responsibilities funded by taxes collected from the people.

But the Church can help communities organise, identify their needs, demonstrate what is possible, and insist that public institutions do their jobs.

It can combine compassion with accountability.

Charity can relieve suffering today. Good governance can prevent some of that suffering tomorrow.

We need both.

When We Become Accustomed to the Smell

There is an old observation about people who live close to a sewage dump. After a while, they become accustomed to the smell. They no longer notice it as a stranger would. What is unbearable to an outsider becomes an ordinary part of their environment.

I wonder whether something similar happens to institutions.

We become accustomed to the way we do things. We inherit structures, habits, traditions, and expectations. We learn to defend them. Eventually, we stop asking whether they still serve the purposes for which they were created.

We become so familiar with our arrangements that we mistake familiarity for necessity.

Perhaps this happens in government. Perhaps in business. Perhaps in our churches.

We become accustomed to the expense of maintaining our institutions. We learn to justify it and develop arguments for why it must continue. And because everyone around us has accepted the arrangement, we rarely question it.

But a stranger comes along. Someone who has not yet become accustomed to the smell.

And suddenly, what everyone else regards as normal begins to look questionable.

I wonder whether that is what happened to me at the funeral.

I was looking at the air conditioners. But perhaps I was really looking at the distance between the resources we consume and the needs we claim to care about.

Perhaps the question was not whether the church could afford those air conditioners, but whether we had considered what else we could accomplish with the money.

And perhaps that is a question worth asking in every church in Lagos.

What Would Jesus Say?

I must be careful here.

I cannot claim to know precisely what Jesus would have said about those particular air conditioners. Neither should I pretend that every church expenditure can be judged by a single calculation.

But we do have the Gospels.

We have the story of the Good Samaritan, who did not merely express sympathy for a wounded stranger but spent his own resources to ensure that the man received care. We have the feeding of the multitude, where the immediate needs of hungry people were not dismissed as somebody else’s responsibility.

We have Jesus’ instruction to the rich young ruler to sell his possessions, give to the poor, and follow Him. We have the warning that it is possible to gain the world and lose one’s soul.

And we have a Jesus who repeatedly directed attention towards people whom society had neglected, marginalised, or considered unworthy of attention.

The question, therefore, is not whether Christians are permitted to own comfortable buildings or use modern equipment.

The question is whether our material arrangements serve the mission of Christ or gradually become ends in themselves.

Can we claim to love our neighbours while remaining indifferent to the conditions in which they live? Can we celebrate the growth of our churches while entire communities struggle to educate their children?

Can we measure spiritual success exclusively by what happens inside our auditoriums when so much suffering happens outside them? And can we continue to insist that the Church is transforming society without examining the evidence of that transformation?

These are uncomfortable questions.

But discomfort is not always the enemy of faith.

Sometimes it is the beginning of repentance.

What If We Tried?

I am not suggesting that churches should abandon their buildings, sell every vehicle, switch off every air conditioner, and distribute the proceeds to the poor. That would be a caricature of the argument.

Churches need resources to fulfil their missions. They need competent leadership, responsible administration, and sustainable operations. Some investments in facilities and equipment are entirely justified.

Nor am I suggesting that the money should simply be handed out without accountability. Money intended to help people can be wasted, mismanaged, or captured by the very interests it was supposed to serve.

Scholarship programmes need transparent selection criteria. Microfinance requires sound underwriting and responsible lending. Business-development programmes need competent management, while community projects need measurable objectives and independent oversight.

If we are serious about changing lives, we must be serious about how the money is spent.

But none of these considerations should prevent us from beginning the conversation.

Let us start with the numbers. Understand what we spend, identify unnecessary costs, and agree on what we can reasonably save. Then let us choose a small number of communities and demonstrate what coordinated action can achieve.

We could begin with scholarships, support vocational training, establish a carefully governed enterprise fund, and help finance businesses with viable plans. We could measure the results, publish them, and, if the experiment succeeds, expand it.

There is no need to wait until every denomination agrees or every pastor is convinced. A group of willing churches could begin. The results might persuade others.

Imagine the testimony of a young woman who started a business with support from such a programme. A young man who acquired a technical skill, found employment, and eventually established a workshop of his own. A family whose children remained in school because the Church helped remove a financial obstacle.

Imagine the difference between a congregation that celebrates its own expansion and one that can point to an expanding circle of people whose lives have been transformed.

Both may be doing worthwhile things.

But should we not aspire to do more?

The Question I Cannot Shake Off

I keep returning to that funeral. To the air conditioners, the diesel generators that power so much of our religious infrastructure, and the cost of maintaining buildings, equipment, vehicles, and the other trappings of organised religion.

And to the millions of people trying to find their way out of poverty.

I think about children whose education is interrupted because their parents cannot afford school fees, young people who have the capacity to work but cannot find a foothold in the economy, and entrepreneurs with ideas, determination, and a willingness to work but without the capital to begin.

I think about families for whom an unexpected medical bill can become a financial catastrophe.

And I wonder how much of this suffering might be relieved if institutions with substantial resources pooled even a modest proportion of what they spend on themselves.

I do not know how much money the churches of Lagos spend every month maintaining their operations. I do not know what percentage could be saved without compromising their essential work, or how many lives could be transformed with those savings.

These are questions that require evidence, not guesswork.

But surely we can find out.

Surely the Church, with all its intellectual, financial, organisational, and human resources, can commission such an exercise. Surely we can put the numbers on the table and have an honest conversation about what they mean.

And surely we can ask whether the resources entrusted to us are producing the greatest good they reasonably can.

Because the issue is not the air conditioner, the generator, or even the building.

The issue is what we believe the Church exists to accomplish.

Is it enough to gather people every Sunday, preach the Gospel, collect offerings, pay our bills, maintain our buildings, and repeat the process the following week?

Or should the Church also be asking what kind of society its presence is helping to create? What kind of people it is helping to form? What kind of poverty it is helping to dismantle? What opportunities it is helping to create, what governments it is helping to hold accountable, and what future it is helping to make possible?

I am not offering answers to all these questions.

I am asking that we begin to ask them.

Because there is something profoundly troubling about an institution that preaches deliverance while remaining insufficiently curious about the conditions from which people need deliverance.

And there is something profoundly hopeful about an institution that begins to understand its resources not merely as the means of sustaining itself, but as instruments for transforming the world around it.

What If?

So I return to my question.

What if we reduced our recurring expenditure by 25 per cent? What if we used the savings to educate children, equip young people with skills, finance productive enterprises, support struggling families, and help communities become more prosperous?

What if we measured success not only by the growth of our congregations but also by the growth of human possibility?

What if we discovered that we could do more for the Kingdom by spending less on ourselves?

I do not expect everyone to agree with me. Some will have objections. Others will question my assumptions or argue that the numbers do not justify the proposal.

Fair enough.

Let us examine the numbers, test the assumptions, and debate the proposal. But let us not dismiss the question merely because it makes us uncomfortable.

I have no grand conclusion to offer. Only a thought that occurred to me at the funeral of a dear friend, and a question that has refused to leave me alone.

What if the Church began to measure some of its success by the destinies it changes outside its own walls?

Don Kenobi 

#MyFrancisEssays 
#OldManInTheMolue