By Tony Okafor
In an age of grand sanctuaries and heavy levies, the Church must remember that its greatest structure is not made of concrete, but of compassion.
Look around your church this Sunday. Beyond the sanctuary, the polished pews, the choir robes and the altar, look at the people in front of you.
Among them is an elderly woman who cannot afford her medication. A widow struggling to feed her children. A family thinking about September school fees. A young person whose education is quietly collapsing for lack of money.
They will sing and even dance. They will listen. They will give. And they will go home carrying burdens no one sees.
Yet, while these quiet crises continue, the appeal for another building project and sundry demands grows louder.
So we must ask: before we undertake another church building project, have we done enough to take care of the poor amongst us?
There is nothing wrong with having a safe and decent place of worship. But it becomes a moral problem when a sound building is pulled down, not because it is unsafe or inadequate, but because we want something bigger and more magnificent.
What of the poor who are asked every Sunday to help fund it?
In an economy where families can barely afford food, medical bills overwhelm households and school fees break homes, should the Church’s priority be another expensive building project?
Perhaps we need to pause. Perhaps we need to look again at the collection basket. Perhaps the second or third offering should answer a more urgent call.
Christianity is not an architectural contest. Faith is not measured by the height of a tower or the cost of imported fittings. A grand building may accommodate thousands, but its grandeur means little if the people inside are hungry, sick and forgotten.
The Church is the body of Christ. Its true structure is not made of cement and steel. It is built around human lives.
Scripture is clear. James describes pure and undefiled religion as caring for orphans and widows in their distress. That is not merely a verse for Bible study. It is a challenge to every Christian institution.
Our elderly deserve attention. Many served their families, communities and churches for decades. Now they sit quietly on Sundays, perhaps too proud to ask for help.
There are widows smiling through hardship. Orphans at risk of dropping out of school. Families with empty kitchens. Sick people postponing treatment. Young people with talent who cannot continue their education.
Must they beg before the Church notices them?
No. The Church should find them. Welfare committees should know who is struggling. Church leaders should be able to identify genuine cases of hardship and provide assistance discreetly, respectfully and without humiliating those who receive it.
Imagine if part of every second collection became a genuine benevolence fund: medication for an elderly member, school fees for an orphan, food for a struggling family, capital for a widow’s trade or rent for a displaced household.
Imagine the testimony. Imagine the lives changed.
Imagine if the energy we pour into fundraising for buildings and sundry causes were redirected towards keeping a family’s roof over its head.
That would not make the Church poorer. It would make it richer in the only currency that truly matters—compassion.
Christ called His disciples to be “fishers of men,” not collectors of material possessions. His ministry was to the hungry, the sick, the abandoned, the poor and the broken.
We can build an impressive church and still fail to build a compassionate community. We can raise millions for a building project while a member cannot afford essential medicine. We can put a bigger roof over a sanctuary while someone sitting in the pews has no roof over his or her head.
Before we demolish another sound building to erect another, let us look at the people in the pews.
Before another levy, let us ask about the widow who needs help.
Before another General Harvest or bazaar, let us ask about the elderly who need care.
Before another offering, let us ask about the hungry among us.
And before we build another church, mission bank or expensive mission school, let us feed the poor. Let us educate the vulnerable. Let us care for the elderly. Let us support widows and orphans. Let us restore dignity to those struggling to survive.
The greatest monument a Church can build is not another Tower of Babel. It is a life rescued from despair.
The finest sanctuary is not necessarily the most expensive. It is the community where no one is forgotten.
Perhaps the most beautiful offering we can place before God on a Sunday is not a pledge for another ‘elusive’ building project, but an act of compassion towards a fellow human being in need.
Before we build another church, let us first build a Church that cares. Before we raise another wall, let us raise the fallen. And before we fill another collection basket for construction, let us make sure that no one among us goes hungry.
