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Lifestone:
Hello,
Where did he accused the current Government in the policy paper? Simply because y.ou c.an't read.

In 2025 alone, according to the World Bank's Nigeria Development Update, ₦14.94 TRILLION of federation revenue was "deducted" before it ever reached the Federation Account. That is 39% — nearly two-fifths — of what Nigeria earned, gone before any state or LGA saw a single kobo.

In 2024, NNPCL — Nigeria's biggest revenue generator — was supposed to remit ₦1.1 trillion to the Federation Account. It remitted ₦600 billion. Where is the ₦500 billion?

Under whose government did this happen?

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At some point, without really noticing, the question shifted. It used to be, “Is God pleased?”Now, more often than we admit, it’s, “Did people enjoy it?”

That change may seem small, but it’s not harmless. It’s shaping how we preach, how we lead, and how we measure success. There’s a quiet craving creeping into the Church — not just for encouragement, but for approval. To be liked. To be shared. To be celebrated. And little by little, it’s changing the atmosphere of our pulpits.

You can see it if you pay attention. Sermons are trimmed into short clips, ready for social media before they’re even fully digested. Worship is sometimes discussed the way people review concerts. Pastors are introduced with the same energy as keynote speakers at big corporate events. The lights are intentional. The music is powerful. The visuals are polished.

None of those things are wrong on their own. But it raises a harder question: what exactly are we trying to build? Because heaven doesn’t respond to production the way people do.

There’s a line of thought that should make any serious believer pause: if our goal quietly becomes people’s approval, then obedience will eventually feel optional. Not immediately, not obviously — but gradually. It shows up in small compromises.

Messages get softened because hard truths can make people uncomfortable. Certain topics are avoided because they might stir controversy. Clarity gets diluted because it can cost followers or influence. So the message becomes safer. Easier. More acceptable. But also, less transformative.

For younger believers, this creates confusion. Influence starts to look like spiritual depth. Large followings are mistaken for genuine fruit. Charisma begins to carry more weight than character. And then we wonder why leaders fall so hard when they do.

The truth is, when we build a culture around personalities, we shouldn’t be surprised when everything shakes the moment those personalities fail. What we call “platform” can quietly turn into pressure. And pressure, without deep roots, eventually breaks people.

There’s a kind of humility we talk about often — but it’s harder to live out. It’s easy to say, “It’s all about Christ.” It’s harder to step back in a way that actually proves it. Because if everything depends on one person’s presence, one person’s voice, one person’s image — then something is off at the foundation. Remove the personality, and if everything struggles to stand, then maybe Christ was never truly at the centre in the first place.

Social media has only made this tension more obvious. It gives us numbers for everything — views, likes, shares, engagement. Those things aren’t evil, but they can become misleading if we treat them as spiritual measurements. Impact becomes something we can count. Depth becomes something we can scroll. But real transformation rarely fits into metrics.

When you look at the early Church, the focus was different. They gathered to pray, not to impress. They weren’t trying to expand a brand — they were asking for boldness. Their concern wasn’t whether the message would offend, but whether it was true.

Today, it’s easy to ask, “Will this grow the church?” before asking, “Is this what God is saying?” Again, growth isn’t the problem. Excellence isn’t the problem. Structure isn’t the problem. The problem starts when presentation quietly takes the place of presence. When more time goes into planning the stage than seeking God.When leaders are surrounded by loyal supporters but lack honest accountability. When appearance begins to matter more than alignment. That’s when things drift.

The Church was never meant to compete with entertainment. We were never called to outshine performances or rival events. What we carry is different. It’s weightier than that.

Applause can feel good. It can sound like affirmation. Sometimes it even looks like success. But it’s not a reliable measure of faithfulness. Because the same crowd that celebrates today can disappear tomorrow.
And if everything we’ve built depends on that response, we’ll feel pressured to keep adjusting just to maintain it. That’s where compromise begins — not as a decision, but as a slow drift.
So the real questions are uncomfortable, but necessary.

For Preachers: Are you saying what is true, or what is easiest to receive? Are you raising disciples, or gathering an audience?

For younger believers: Don’t confuse visibility with victory. Don’t assume popularity equals anointing. And don’t build your faith around platforms.

The cross wasn’t applauded. It was rejected. If following Christ never costs us anything — not reputation, not comfort, not approval — then it’s worth asking what exactly we’re holding onto.
This isn’t about rejecting excellence or shrinking the Church. It’s about restoring something deeper than both: reverence. Alignment. Integrity of motive. Because what the Church needs most right now isn’t more personalities. It’s more people willing to serve, quietly if necessary. People who are anchored, not just visible.

And maybe the simplest test is this: If the applause stopped tomorrow — would the message stay the same? Would we still speak about holiness? Would we still confront sin with love and clarity? Would we still point people to the cross, even if it costs us? Or would we start adjusting, just to win people back? That question doesn’t need a public answer. But it does need an honest one. Because at the end of the day, applause fades. It always does. What remains is whether we were faithful.

Source: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/1Grx31KpV5/

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Nigeria has become the punchline of Africa. And Nigerians? We’ve become people the world has learned to keep at arm’s length. The moment you say you’re Nigerian, suspicion lands before you’ve said another word. You may eventually prove yourself, yes—but the suspicion comes first. You are guilty until you spend time proving otherwise. We haven’t just messed up our own country. We’ve become a problem other nations have to manage.

Recently, Ghana’s President, John Mahama, said something that should have shaken us awake. He prays every day for Nigeria to get its act together. Not because he loves us so dearly—but because if we don’t, his country will keep drowning in the flood of our dysfunction. A neighbouring leader is on his knees, not for Ghana, but for Nigeria. Because our problem has become Africa’s problem.

And yet, here at home, we walk around like everything is normal. Abnormality has become our comfort zone. Honesty feels strange. Doing the right thing makes you a lonely figure swimming against a raging current. You wake up each morning and have to fight to stay sane in the middle of insanity. It is exhausting. It is heartbreaking. And it is not accidental.

We have lost our value system. Completely.

Let’s be honest: when we say someone is “doing well,” what do we really mean? We mean they have money. That’s it. Not that they are honest. Not that they are diligent. You could be the most faithful employee, a model of integrity—but if your bank account doesn’t impress, society looks right through you. You are invisible. Uncelebrated.

This mindset has blood on its hands. Today, we give chieftaincy titles to men whose wealth we know came from stolen public funds. We know the stories. We read the headlines. Yet we sit there and clap.

This is why internet fraud is booming. Why figures are cooked in offices. Why business owners sell poison and call it product. Why a young girl feels her body is her only currency. Why politicians empty state coffers and sleep like babies. Because we have built a world where wealth equals worth. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And here is the painful truth that nobody wants to say out loud: society expects the fraud. The young man who travels abroad knows that his family back home will only be proud if he returns with a fat bank account. Never mind if he got there by pushing drugs or running Yahoo. They won't ask. They will just collect the money and call him a success. The politician who leaves office without a fleet of cars and a mansion in Abuja is not called honest—he is called a fool. We have created a culture where poverty in power is seen as incompetence, and wealth without traceable source is seen as blessing. So people do what they must to meet the expectation. They sell their conscience because the alternative—being poor and respected—is, in our society, a worse shame than being rich and crooked.

When money becomes the altar at which the society bows, people will bring any sacrifice required - including their conscience.

So what do we do? Or have we resigned ourselves to just complaining and sharing angry posts?

Here is where change begins—not in Aso Rock first, but in your living room. In my village. In the way we raise our children and the people we choose to celebrate.

First, stop celebrating wealth you cannot trace. That uncle with no visible business but a new mansion every year? Do not clap at family gatherings. That politician who buys your vote with rice and a thousand naira? Do not smile and collect. Silence is approval. And your silence has a name: complicity.

Second, ask the hard questions out loud. “What do you do for a living?” Ask it directly. Let people feel the weight. If they dodge, let the awkwardness hang. We have become too polite around thieves. Politeness is killing us.

Third, start at home with your children. Do not tell them to “make money by any means.” Tell them that a good name is better than gold. Tell them that if they cannot sleep with their eyes closed at night, no amount of money is worth it. And live that truth. Children do not listen to sermons; they watch your choices.

Fourth, stop voting for criminals. I know—easier said than done when hunger is real. But that small envelope of cash on election day is the price of your conscience. Let them know: your integrity is not for sale. Not for two thousand naira. Not for a bag of rice.

Fifth, the Church and the mosque must stop being billboards for corruption. If a known fraudster donates millions to build a cathedral, reject the money publicly. Let him take his stolen millions elsewhere. Houses of worship have become laundering machines for dirty wealth. It is time to say, “We don’t want your blood money.” That single act would shake the foundation of this rot.

Sixth, call out your own. Your friend who is into “Yahoo”? Do not laugh and say “God will bless him.” Tell him he is a disgrace. Lose the friendship if you must. Your colleague who inflates contracts? Report them. Yes, it is risky. But silence is why we are here. Every honest person who stays quiet is a helper of the dishonest.

And finally, redefine success in your own small world. When someone introduces a young man as “hardworking and honest,” celebrate that. When a public servant serves without demanding a bribe, applaud them publicly. We have to make integrity fashionable again. It will not happen from the top. It will happen from the ground up—one uncomfortable conversation, one refused bribe, one shamed fraudster at a time.

Do not wait for the government to fix our values. They are the product of our broken values, not the cause.

We can change. But change is not a decision that is comfortable. It is a decision that hurts. It will cost you friends, comfort, maybe even opportunities. But the alternative is what we have now: a nation that is laughed at, a people that are avoided, and a future we are stealing from our own children.

So the real question is not can we change. It is: are you willing to be the one who starts?

Because if not you, then who? And if not now, then when?

Many people say they follow Jesus Christ, but they are still the ones making the final decisions in their lives. Following Jesus is not adding Him to your plans. It is surrendering your plans to Him.

Jesus said, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself…” (Luke 9:23)
That means your opinions, desires, and ambitions must bow. If God cannot interrupt your plans, you are not following Him—you are using Him.

Some people pray, but they have already decided what they will do. A disciple is not in control—Jesus is.

Let me say something that may unsettle some of us. The Gospel is not a financial strategy.
It is not a formula for promotion. It is not a guarantee of comfort. It is not a divine insurance policy against hardship. However, if we are honest, much of what is preached today sounds exactly like that.

I write this not as someone opposed to blessing. I believe God provides. I believe He opens doors. I believe He prospers His people according to His will. But provision is not the centre of the Gospel. Christ is.

Somewhere along the line, we subtly shifted the emphasis. The Cross became a stepping stone to “increase”. Sacrifice became a seed for “return”. Faith became a mechanism for acquisition. We began to measure spirituality by visible success. Big house? Favour. Luxury car? Evidence of faith. Rapid expansion? Proof of God’s hand.

But if wealth is the primary evidence of blessing, what do we do with the early Church? The believers in Acts of the Apostles were persecuted, scattered, imprisoned — yet Scripture says they turned the world upside down. They had power without prestige. Influence without affluence.

The Apostle Paul wrote most of his letters from prison. Not from a penthouse. In Second Epistle to the Corinthians 11, he lists hardships — beatings, shipwrecks, hunger, danger. That does not fit neatly into modern prosperity frameworks. Yet who would dare say Paul lacked faith?

The uncomfortable truth is this: when prosperity becomes central, suffering becomes suspicious. If someone is struggling financially, we quietly question their belief. If someone is ill, we imply a lack of declaration. If growth is slow, we assume it is caused by the enemy. And so believers carry unnecessary guilt — not because they have sinned, but because they have not “scaled”.

Jesus never promised luxury. In Gospel of Luke 9:58, He said, “The Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” The One we follow lived without excess. He warned us that following Him would involve a cross, not just a crown. When did we stop preaching that part?

This is where it becomes dangerous. When the Gospel is presented primarily as a path to wealth, people come to Christ for what He gives — not for who He is. And when hardship comes (as it inevitably does), their faith collapses because it was built on expectation, not surrender.

Young believers especially are being discipled into ambition rather than consecration. We speak more about destiny than about dying to self. More about breakthrough than about obedience. More about elevation than endurance. But Christianity is not self-improvement. It is a self-crucifixion.

In Gospel of Luke 9:23, Jesus says, “If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily.” Daily surrender does not trend well in a success-obsessed culture.

We must be honest with ourselves. Prosperity messaging fills auditoriums. It attracts crowds. It keeps hope high and offerings steady. But are we building disciples or customers?

There is nothing wrong with wealth. The danger lies in prioritising it. There is nothing wrong with growth. The danger lies in equating it with godliness.

The Gospel is this: Christ crucified. Sin forgiven. Hearts transformed. Lives surrendered.

Anything that sidelines the Cross, even subtly, is no longer the Gospel in its fullness. If blessing comes, we thank God. If abundance comes, we steward it wisely. But if hardship comes, we remain faithful. Because our faith is not rooted in outcomes — it is rooted in Christ.

The world is already chasing money. The Church must not echo the same pursuit with Christian vocabulary. We are not called to mirror the culture’s obsession with success. We are called to model contentment, generosity, sacrifice, and trust.

If we remove wealth from the equation, is Jesus still enough? That is the question prosperity preaching rarely asks. But it is the question every disciple must answer. Because at the end of the day, the Gospel is not about what we gain. It is about Who we follow. And sometimes, following Him will cost us everything — except our souls.

#gospel #cross #jesus #discipleship

One of the biggest debates around Christianity isn’t church, or pastors, or even religion in general—it’s this: did Jesus really die, and did He really rise again?

Some say He was never crucified. Others accept His death as history but stop short of believing in the resurrection. It’s almost as though people are comfortable with a dead Jesus—but not a living one.

But here’s the thing: the death of Jesus isn’t just a Christian belief; it’s a historical fact. Even sources outside the Bible affirm that Jesus Christ was crucified. That part isn’t the real issue.

The real tension begins at the empty tomb.
Because if Jesus truly rose from the dead, then we’re not just talking about a good man, or a prophet, or a moral teacher—we’re talking about God in the flesh. And that changes everything.

Yes, there were attempts to cover it up. The guards were bribed to say His disciples stole the body (Matthew 28:12–13). But think about it—men who were once afraid, hiding behind locked doors, suddenly became bold, fearless, and willing to die for this same message. People don’t give their lives for what they know is a lie.
And it didn’t end with rumours. Jesus appeared—again and again. “He was seen by Cephas, then by the twelve… after that, He was seen by more than five hundred brethren at once” (1 Corinthians 15:5–6). This wasn’t a private vision. This was public, undeniable, and life-altering.

Let’s be honest—if the resurrection didn’t happen, then Christianity collapses like a house of cards.
No resurrection? Then Jesus was just another man with bold claims. No resurrection? Then the disciples were liars. No resurrection? Then faith is pointless, and sin still has the final say.
As the Bible puts it plainly: “If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins” (1 Corinthians 15:17).

That’s a hard truth—but it’s also what makes the good news so powerful. Because the resurrection did happen. And because it did, everything changes. It means sin has been dealt with—fully, finally, completely. It means forgiveness isn’t wishful thinking—it’s a settled reality. It means death isn’t the end—it’s a doorway.

Here’s the point: the empty tomb is not just a story—it’s a guarantee. A guarantee that your past can be forgiven.A guarantee that your present can have purpose.A guarantee that your future can be secure.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16).
Notice that—whoever believes. Not whoever tries harder. Not whoever is “good enough”. Because let’s face it, none of us are.

So the real question isn’t whether people debate the resurrection. People will always debate.
The real question is this: what are you building your eternity on?
Good works? Religious routines? Hope that somehow it will all work out? That’s not assurance—that’s guessing. And eternity is too long to be wrong.

If you don’t believe in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ—or you haven’t accepted Him as your Lord and Saviour—what exactly is your guarantee of eternity with God? Because here’s the truth, simple and straight: Only Jesus died for your sins. Only Jesus rose again. Only Jesus defeated death. And that means only Jesus can guarantee your eternity.

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me’” (John 14:6). Not one of many ways. Not a suggestion. Not an option among options.
The way.

So yes, people may argue. People may doubt. People may question. But one fact remains: the tomb is empty—and that demands a response.
Because if Jesus is alive, then ignoring Him isn’t neutral… it’s a decision. And if He truly rose, then following Him isn’t religion… it’s life.

So the question isn’t just “Did He rise?”
The question is—what will you do about it?

SmartPolician:
I like that Tinubu acknowledged her when he visited Jos briefly, but I was shocked that there were too many sycophants in that lounge clapping for an incompetent leader on a condolence visit

Acknowledging her from an airport lounge isn’t the same as showing up where the tragedy actually happened. Presence matters — especially in moments like this.

If power supply was the reason his visit was cut short, then that only raises a more uncomfortable question: who is responsible for fixing that problem in the first place?

This isn’t about sentiment or brief appearances. It’s about accountability and follow-through. Leadership is measured not by quick visits or kind words, but by whether the conditions that lead to these tragedies are actually being addressed.

Seeing the image below — the woman, a widow they say, holding the body of her only son — does something to you. It is not just heartbreaking; it unsettles you in a way you cannot easily recover from. You don’t just feel sad, you feel confused… almost disoriented. Because how is something like this still happening?

I found myself staring at it longer than I should have, not because I wanted to, but because my mind was trying — and failing — to process it. How do you even begin to comfort a woman like that? What do you say? “Sorry for your loss” sounds almost insulting in the face of that kind of pain. As a parent, I tried to imagine it, but I had to stop. There are places the mind refuses to go, not because it cannot, but because it knows it should not.

And the truth is, this did not just happen. This was allowed to happen.

That woman is not only a victim of violence; she is a victim of neglect at the highest level. Because what else do you call it when citizens keep dying in the same ways, in the same places, and nothing fundamentally changes? What else do you call it when lives are lost and the response is routine — statements, condemnations, promises — and then silence, until the next tragedy?

At some point, we have to be honest: this is no longer about “unfortunate incidents”. It is about a pattern. And patterns point to failure.
You do not have to hate the government to admit this. You do not have to belong to any political side. Strip everything away — the slogans, the loyalties, the arguments — and look at the outcome. People are not safe. Families are being destroyed. Communities are living in fear. If the basic duty of any government is to protect lives, then we have to ask a simple question: is that duty being fulfilled?
Because if it is, this should not be normal.

When people say “Nigeria is happening to people”, this is what they mean. It is not just about hardship or money. It is about waking up every day in a place where your life can be cut short, senselessly, and it barely disrupts the system. That is why people leave. Not everyone is chasing wealth. Some are simply running from the possibility of becoming the next headline… or worse, the next forgotten story.

And then there is something even more disturbing.
That video of a young man being lynched while others go about their day — that one is hard to shake off. Not just because of what was done to him, but because of what was not done by everyone else. People passed by. People watched. No one stepped in. It is as if something inside us is slowly switching off.
We are getting used to things we should never get used to.
And that might be the most dangerous part of all.
Because when a society stops reacting to evil, it creates room for more of it. When outrage dies, accountability dies with it. When people begin to accept this as “just how things are”, then nothing changes — and everything gets worse.

For those of us who still feel disturbed, who still lose sleep over things like this, it can be exhausting. It feels like you are out of place in your own country, simply because you refuse to accept what is happening as normal.
But it is not normal.
It should never be normal for a mother to hold her dead child like that. It should never be normal for people to be killed while others walk past. It should never be normal to scroll past tragedy after tragedy and feel nothing.
And yet, here we are.

The painful truth is this: a country that cannot consistently protect its people is failing them. Not occasionally. Not accidentally. Systemically.
And until that truth is faced — honestly, without excuses — images like that woman’s will keep appearing. And each time, we will ask the same questions, feel the same anger, and watch nothing really change.

Something has shifted in the Church — and we all feel it. We don’t tremble like we used to. We don’t repent like we used to. We don’t even preach like we used to.

Somewhere along the way, sin became a sensitive topic.

Why are we afraid to call sin “sin”? We call it “mistakes”. We call it “error”. We call it “struggles”. We call it “authentic living”.
But rarely do we call it what Scripture calls it.
In the name of relevance, we have diluted righteousness. In the name of grace, we have excused carnality. In the name of love, we have tolerated rebellion.

And when anyone raises concern, the responses come quickly:
“Do not judge.” “God looks at the heart.” "We are under grace, not law.”

Yes, we are under grace — but grace was never a licence to sin. The Apostle Paul asked in Epistle to the Romans 6:1–2, “Shall we continue in sin, that grace may abound? God forbid.” That is not passive language. That is apostolic alarm.
Grace empowers holiness. It does not excuse compromise.

Yet look around. Fornication is normalised. Adultery is excused. Cohabitation is baptised with silence. Greed is rebranded as “kingdom prosperity”. Pride is repackaged as “confidence”. And if we dare to confront it, we are labelled harsh, religious, or toxic.

Meanwhile, entire congregations are being shaped more by culture than by Christ.
We have allowed hyper-grace teaching to convince believers that conviction is condemnation. We have allowed prosperity preaching to imply that the Gospel is primarily about accumulation. We have allowed celebrity culture to creep into pulpits so that pastors are followed like influencers and corrected like untouchables.

The cross has become decorative — not defining. Jesus said in Gospel of Luke 9:23, “If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily.” Daily. Not occasionally. Not when convenient.

Self-denial is no longer popular. Self-expression is.

Holiness is described as extreme. Worldliness is described as balanced.

We dim the lights, raise the volume, perfect the branding, build the platform — but where is the fear of the Lord? Where is the trembling at His Word? Where is the sorrow over sin?

The early believers in Acts of the Apostles did not pray for influence. They prayed for boldness. They did not gather for performance. They gathered for power. When sin entered the camp, it was confronted — not managed for optics.

Today, we manage perception more than we pursue purity.

Young believers are confused because the message is mixed. Leaders are cautious because confrontation costs attendance. And so we whisper about what Scripture shouts about.

The Apostle Peter reminds us in First Epistle of Peter 1:16, “Be holy, for I am holy.” That command was not cultural. It was covenantal.
We are in the world — yes. But as Jesus prayed in Gospel of John 17:14–16, we are not of it.
If there is no distinction between us and the world, what exactly have we been saved from?
This is not a call to legalism. It is a call to lordship.It is not about controlling behaviour; it is about surrendering hearts. But surrendered hearts produce transformed lives. The Gospel does not only forgive sin — it frees us from its dominion.

We cannot preach freedom while tolerating chains. We cannot shout “revival” while winking at rebellion. We cannot build mega-structures while neglecting moral foundations.

Church leaders must recover courage. Young believers must recover conviction. All of us must recover the fear of God. Because if sin becomes comfortable in the Church, the Spirit will not.

The world does not need a softer Church. It needs a holy one. It does not need trendier sermons. It needs truthful ones. It does not need pastors with larger platforms. It needs shepherds with cleaner hands.

If we truly love people, we will tell them the truth — even when it costs us applause. So I ask again:
Why are we afraid to call sin “sin”? If we cannot confront compromise within our walls, how will we confront darkness outside them?

May judgement begin with us. May repentance begin with us. May revival begin — not on a stage — but on our knees. Because at the end of the day, Christ is not coming back for a culturally blended Church. He is coming back for a spotless Bride.

Fake news! Why would Nairaland place fake news on the front page? Shame!

Let me say something that may sound uncomfortable: If heaven measures righteousness by how many churches we build, Nigeria would lead the world. If God counted prayer uproar as holiness, we would be unbeatable. But righteousness is not uproar. And something is not right.

Our society has slowly, almost quietly, redefined what matters. Personal success and riches are now pursued at the expense of integrity. A person is no longer respected simply for being upright, hardworking and truthful. What determines whether people respect you is how much you have acquired — and very few people pause to ask how you acquired it.

You are assessed by the car you drive. By the house you live in. By the clothes you wear.
We even say it boldly: “You are addressed the way you are dressed.”

When people say someone is “doing well”, what they often mean is that the person has made money. Until you make money, you are not considered successful. You could be honest, diligent, faithful to your spouse, committed to your work — but if you are not financially impressive, society looks past you. And this mindset has consequences.

Today, individuals with questionable character are given chieftaincy titles, even when it is widely known that their wealth came from stolen public funds. We know the stories. We read the headlines. Yet they are celebrated publicly.
More troubling is this: sometimes, the Church does the same.

Special seats are reserved for them during services. They are publicly recognised. Some are appointed deacons. Some even become pastors. Influence opens doors faster than integrity ever could.

And then we wonder why young people are desperate to “make it”.

This is one of the reasons internet fraud is so prevalent. It is why figures are manipulated in offices. It is why business owners sell inferior products at the price of quality ones. It is why politicians embezzle public funds without shame.
Because we have created a society where wealth equals worth.

I once had a conversation with a young man involved in internet fraud. I pointed him to Proverbs 22:1: “A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.”
He listened carefully and then said something that stayed with me. He told me plainly that he would choose great riches over a good reputation. That response was painful — but it was honest. He was simply reflecting what he sees rewarded every day.

And here is where it becomes even more painful.
The Church — the very institution meant to confront these ills and point people back to Christ — has, in many ways, encouraged the same value system. Instead of holding firmly to the gospel Paul described in 1 Corinthians 15:3–4 — that Christ died for our sins, was buried, and rose again on the third day — we have elevated another message. What is popularly known as the “prosperity gospel”.

In many pulpits, it is subtly communicated that something is wrong with your life if you are financially struggling. That poverty must mean there is sin somewhere. That if your faith is strong enough, your bank account will prove it.
Statements are made — sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly — like, “You cannot trust the holiness of a poor man.” Or, “Jesus never visited the poor.” Or, “To be poor means there is sin in your life.”
But where is that in Scripture?

Jesus said, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world, yet forfeits his soul?” (Mark 8:36).Paul warned that “the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil” (1 Timothy 6:10).James cautioned believers not to show favouritism to the rich over the poor (James 2:1–4).
Yet today, the rich are prioritised while the poor are often treated as projects or objects of pity. Hardworking and contented people are overlooked, while flashy wealth is celebrated.

The pressure this creates is enormous. People feel they have no option but to make money — by any means necessary — just to be respected. Conscience becomes negotiable when dignity seems tied to income.

And this explains a painful contradiction.
Nigeria is one of the most religious countries in the world. Our churches are large. Our services are packed. Our religious programmes dominate the media. Yet we are also known globally for corruption and fraud. How can we be so religious and yet so morally compromised? How can we have so many churches and so little transformation? It suggests that something is wrong — not with the gospel, but with what we have replaced it with.

The Church was never called to mirror society. We are called to be salt and light (Matthew 5:13–14). Salt preserves what is good. Light exposes what is dark.

If we begin to celebrate what the world celebrates, who will challenge the world?
This is not an attack on wealth. Wealth in itself is not evil. Abraham was wealthy. Job was wealthy. But wealth was never presented as the measure of righteousness.
Character was.
Obedience was.
Faithfulness was.

Until we return to honouring righteousness above riches, integrity above influence, and Christ above comfort, we will continue to be rich in religion but poor in righteousness.

Revival will not begin with louder services. It will begin with repentance. With a return to the true gospel. With choosing a good name over great riches.

The question is not whether society has lost its values. The question is whether the Church will rediscover hers.

For those questioning his achievements.,you may need to visit Zamfara and see for yourselves. He's doing so well. You don't see everything happening in the news.

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The modern Church has become dangerously comfortable. So comfortable that our faith has slowly been reduced to a legal loophole hunt: “Show me the verse that says it’s a sin.” If it isn’t clearly spelt out in black and white, we assume it’s permitted. No conviction. No restraint. No concern for the impact of our choices on others. And so we keep running in circles.

Can a Christian drink alcohol? Can a Christian male plait his hair? Can a believer get a tattoo? Is this allowed? Is that forbidden?

In these debates, it hardly seems to matter whose conscience is violated or whose faith is confused. As long as my freedom is intact, the damage done to others is often brushed aside.

But Scripture paints a far more demanding picture of Christian liberty.

While addressing the issue of meat sacrificed to idols, Paul does not argue from personal rights but from responsibility and love. In 1 Corinthians 8:8–13 (NLT), he writes:

“It’s true that we can’t win God’s approval by what we eat. We don’t lose anything if we don’t eat it, and we don’t gain anything if we do. But you must be careful so that your freedom does not cause others with a weaker conscience to stumble. For if others see you—with your ‘superior knowledge’—eating in the temple of an idol, won’t they be encouraged to violate their conscience by eating food that has been offered to an idol? So because of your superior knowledge, a weak believer for whom Christ died will be destroyed. And when you sin against other believers by encouraging them to do something they believe is wrong, you are sinning against Christ. So if what I eat causes another believer to sin, I will never eat meat again as long as I live—for I don’t want to cause another believer to stumble.”

Paul could have insisted on his knowledge. He could have defended his liberty. Instead, he chose restraint. His freedom bowed to love.

That level of responsibility was not new to God’s people. In ancient Israel, priests were held to a much higher standard than ordinary Israelites. Israelites could marry widows or divorcees; priests could not. Israelites could drink alcohol; priests were forbidden while serving. Ordinary Israelites could touch dead bodies for burial; priests were strictly forbidden. The closer one stood to God’s presence, the greater the demand for holiness.

What many believers forget is that the priesthood did not disappear in the New Testament — it expanded. Peter makes this unmistakably clear in 1 Peter 2:9 (NLT):

“But you are not like that, for you are a chosen people. You are royal priests, a holy nation, God’s very own possession. As a result, you can show others the goodness of God, for he called you out of the darkness into his wonderful light.”

That means our lives speak. Constantly. Loudly. Whether we like it or not, we are representing God to a watching world and to younger, weaker believers who are learning what faith looks like by observing us.

The question, then, is no longer simply, “Can I do this?”The more important question is, “Should I — as a royal priest?”

Paul reinforces this tension in 1 Corinthians 6:12 (NLT):

“You say, ‘I am allowed to do anything’—but not everything is good for you. And even though ‘I am allowed to do anything,’ I must not become a slave to anything.”

Here is where modern Christianity often stumbles. Permission is mistaken for wisdom. Liberty is confused with maturity. Yet Scripture insists that true freedom is not proved by how much we can indulge, but by how much we are willing to surrender.

If it controls you, you are not free. If it weakens others, it is not love. If it damages your witness, it is not worth defending.

The early Church did not change the world by asking, “Is this technically a sin?” They changed the world by asking, “Does this glorify Christ?”
A compromised Church looks for loopholes. A consecrated Church lives by conviction.
Perhaps what the Church needs today is not more arguments about rights, but more believers who understand that freedom, when guided by love, often chooses restraint.

January has a way of making everyone feel like a strategist. New diaries. New calendars. New declarations. We tell ourselves, this is my year. Plans are drafted, goals are written, vision boards are made, and resolutions are boldly announced. We want better jobs, bigger incomes, improved relationships, good health, happiness, progress. And honestly, none of these things are wrong.
Planning is wise. Goal-setting gives direction. Focus helps us prioritise what truly matters in our daily lives. Even Scripture affirms this: “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance” (Proverbs 21:5). So yes, plan. Dream. Aim higher.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth we rarely confront.
For many of us, our plans end where our lives end.
Our goals often revolve around promotions, financial growth, comfort, recognition, and personal fulfilment. Everything we chase is temporary. Everything we work tirelessly for can be taken, lost, or left behind. We invest years into things that will never cross the grave with us. And somehow, we’re okay with that.

What’s missing is not ambition. What’s missing is eternity.

Very few people plan for spiritual depth with the same intensity they plan for financial success. Very few set goals around becoming more like Christ, growing in discipleship, sharing their faith, or living a life that genuinely impacts others for God. Those things are quietly outsourced to pastors, church leaders, or “people who are called”.
Yet Jesus never said, Go and make pastors. He said, “Go and make disciples” (Matthew 28:19). That call wasn’t limited to pulpits. It was handed to ordinary people with ordinary lives and extraordinary purpose.

As we step into 2026, a sincere and unavoidable question stands before us: what is the eternal value of the goals I am pursuing?
If everything you achieve this year disappears at death, was it truly success? If you gain the applause of people but neglect your soul, was it worth the effort? Jesus put it bluntly: “What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, yet forfeit their soul?” (Mark 8:36). That question wasn’t rhetorical. It was a warning.

Imagine standing at the end of the year with everything you prayed for materially, yet spiritually unchanged. Same prayer life. Same distance from God. Same silence when opportunities to share Christ arise. Same comfort, same compromise.

Now imagine the opposite. You may not have everything you wanted, but you know God more deeply. Your faith is stronger. Someone encountered Jesus through your life. You became more intentional about obedience, generosity, love, and truth. That kind of progress doesn’t trend on social media, but it echoes in eternity.
Scripture reminds us, “Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things” (Colossians 3:2). Not ignore earthly responsibilities, but refuse to make them ultimate. Earthly success is a tool, not the destination.

So as plans are written and targets are set, perhaps the most important goals are the ones we rarely write down. To love God more sincerely. To live with eternal awareness. To be bold about our faith. To leave people better because Christ lives in us.
Because one day, the job title won’t matter. The bank balance won’t matter. The applause will fade. But the life you lived for God will still speak.
And when this year ends, may we not only say, I achieved my goals, but also, I lived for what truly lasts.
“For we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. Since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:18).

Depriest2020:
OP correct your post, God the creator sent his beloved, not he the creator came to be suffered by his creations.

Who is His beloved? Who is Jesus? John 1:1,14, John 8:58, Isaiah 9:6, John 10:30.

What would it look like to live as people redeemed not by strength, but by surrender?

What does this say about how deeply God intends to heal what sin has broken?

If we truly believed this message, how might it change the way we treat others

One of the greatest mysteries humanity has ever struggled to wrap its mind around is this: God became a man.

Not a superhero. Not a glowing spirit floating above humanity. But a man—wrapped in flesh, breath, hunger, fatigue.

The Almighty God, who created the heavens and the earth and everything in them, chose to step inside His own creation. Let that sit for a moment.

He was conceived by His creation. Born through His creation. Fed by His creation. Carried, cleaned, and clothed by His creation.

The hands that flung stars into space had to learn how to grip a finger.The voice that spoke galaxies into existence cried in the night.The One who sustains life depended on milk to survive.
He was vulnerable before His creation. Scolded by His creation. Corrected and disciplined by His creation. Sent on errands by His creation.
God… sent to buy bread.

If that doesn’t stop you in your tracks, nothing will.

This wasn’t a weakness, it was love.

A love so deep, so humbling, so reckless by human standards that it defies language. He did this not because He needed us—but because we needed Him. Especially man, whom He created in His own image.

This wasn’t an afterthought either. Heaven announced the reason clearly before His birth:
“She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.” (Matthew 1:21)
Not in their sins. But from their sins.
And this matters.

He didn’t come to preserve brokenness. He didn’t come to excuse darkness. He didn’t come to make people materially rich—after all, people were already wealthy before He arrived.
As Titus reminds us, His grace teaches us to say no to ungodliness, not to dress it up (Titus 2:11–12).

Yet here lies the painful irony.

The very thing He came to rescue humanity from is now what many use to celebrate His birth.
For many, Christmas has become a licence.
A season to sleep around without restraint. A season to drink until self-control disappears. A season to manipulate, exploit, and chase profit at any cost.

We toast excess while celebrating a Saviour who chose restraint. We indulge the flesh while honouring the One who came to redeem it.
Somehow, the holy has been buried beneath noise, lust, greed, and glitter.

But Christmas was never meant to be that.
It was meant to be a demonstration of love. A reminder that God stepped down so humanity could rise. A season to reflect that love—quietly, visibly, deliberately—to others.
Not perfection, but transformation. Not performance, but purpose.

If God could humble Himself that far for us, surely Christmas can be more than a party.
It can be a testimony.

This is a call for discernment in an age where titles are easily claimed but character is often missing.

The Bible never asked us to protect “pastors” at all costs — it asked us to examine fruit. Anointing was never meant to excuse sin or silence accountability.

Let’s discuss this honestly and biblically. What does fruit look like to you?

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One of the easiest things to become in our time is a pastor. You don’t need years of brokenness before God, or a life tested by integrity. In many churches, all it takes is loyalty, the ability to quote a few popular scriptures, confidence on the altar, and suddenly someone is ordained. Add a good suit, a loud “Amen”, and some spiritual language, and the crowd will follow.

This is how we got here.

Nigeria is one of the most religious countries in the world, yet we are surrounded by corruption, violence, and moral decay. Churches are full, but character is scarce. Prayer camps are crowded, but accountability is empty. Christianity has never been this loud, yet Christlikeness has never been this rare.
Every now and then, a scandal breaks out. A pastor involved in immorality. Another accused of financial abuse. Another exposed for manipulation or violence. What is shocking is not even the sin anymore — it is the boldness. The same people return to the pulpit as if nothing happened. And sadly, many church members rise to defend them.
“Touch not the anointed,” they say.“Who are you to judge?”“He is still a man of God.”

In Nigeria, we have mastered the art of protecting titles while ignoring truth.
Jesus did not leave us confused about this matter. In Matthew 7:15–16, He warned us clearly: “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. By their fruit you will recognise them.” Not by how powerful they sound. Not by how many miracles they claim. Not by how large the church is. By their fruit.
Fruit does not lie.

A man’s fruit shows in his character when no camera is on him. It shows in his speech when he is criticised. It shows in how he treats his wife, his children, his assistants, and his members. It shows in whether he is humble or violent, accountable or arrogant. It even shows in the kind of Christians he produces — people who are loving and Christ-like, or people who are angry, defensive, and spiritually abusive.

Recently, a pastor publicly dismissed the words of Jesus in Matthew 5:39, where Christ teaches about turning the other cheek. Think about that. A man claiming to represent Christ openly rejects Christ’s own teaching because it doesn’t suit his emotions. And many still applauded him.
This is how dangerous hero-worship has become in the Nigerian church.

The Bible sets very clear standards for leadership. In fact, the requirements given in 1 Timothy 3:2 are not even for pastors first, but for deacons. A church leader must be above reproach, faithful to his wife, self-controlled, wise, respectable, hospitable, and able to teach. No mention of fame. No mention of private jets. No mention of threatening critics or fighting online.
God has never been impressed by noise. He is moved by obedience.

As Nigerian Christians, we must return to discernment. Not insult. Not abuse. Discernment. We must stop confusing anointing with character and popularity with approval. Honouring God does not mean defending sin, and loyalty to a church must never override loyalty to Christ.
Not every church that is growing is healthy. Not every pastor that is powerful is godly. And not everyone who quotes scripture is submitted to it.

The Bible never told us to worship pastors. It told us to follow Christ.
If we truly love God, we must be bold enough to say this: a title does not make a pastor. Fruit does.

If fruit, not title, is the true test… how many pulpits in Nigeria would still be occupied today?

Are you a God user or a God chaser?

If God is calling us to “wake up,” what might He be asking you to change—or return to?