By Richard DABLAH _ Email: richard.dablah@gmail.com
I. The Façade of Piety: A Sunday Morning Audit
Yesterday was Sunday. In towns and cities across the continent, the air will thicken with a
quiet pageantry. The irons hiss before dawn, and the scent of lavender starch and
imported cologne wafts through narrow hallways. Mothers lay out pressed white lace
and polished handbags. Fathers review Scripture on their phones, adjusting cufflinks in
mirrors smudged with holy oil and toothpaste. Children queue for their turn at the shoe
brush—black leather buffed until it blinds. Soon, the streets will come alive with
believers draped in splendor. Headwraps towering like crowns. Bibles tucked into
purses. Every step a ritual. Every look a benediction. From taxis and trotro stops, they’ll
converge toward sanctuaries crowned with marble, framed by tinted glass and
brass-plated doors. Inside, LED screens blaze with scripture. Choirs swell. The organ
roars. Ushers glide between pews with choreography worthy of angels. The preacher
will mount the pulpit like a throne, dressed in silk and conviction. His words will stir.
There will be laughter, dancing, prophecies, and generous giving—seeds sown for
miracles, for wealth, for divine overflow. It will feel like heaven has come down.
But outside? Outside, the gutters groan. The same road that leads to the sanctuary is
lined with choking plastic, human waste, and the acrid smoke of morning fires. The
drains are clogged, the air fouled, the neighborhood sick. Just beyond the echo of
hallelujahs, the land is weeping. And yet, no one pauses. The same hands lifted in
praise step carefully over open sewage. The same mouths that sing choruses purse in
disgust—then quickly forget. Because to speak of waste, of water, of the earth—in
church—is to be seen as carnal. To care for the street is someone else’s calling. To
notice the filth is almost unspiritual. But is it really? If our worship does not cleanse the
land beneath our feet, what exactly have we sanctified? This is the opening balance
sheet of a faith that has, perhaps inadvertently, traded earthly stewardship for celestial
aspirations, leaving a significant environmental deficit in its wake. The ledger, when
examined closely, reveals a curious accounting: immense spiritual capital accumulated
within hallowed walls, while the very ground supporting those walls depreciates into a
toxic asset. The quiet pageantry, it seems, comes with a loud, unacknowledged cost.
II. The Prosperity Gospel’s Balance Sheet: A Flawed
Investment Strategy
Across Africa, and in much of the global Church, this disconnect has become doctrine.
The gospel of prosperity has flourished: salvation now comes with a down payment and
an altar seed. Church budgets flow toward grand buildings, stage lights, private jets,
and multimillion-dollar cathedrals—while church-run clinics lack clean water, and
believers bathe in rivers polluted by their own waste. We glorify the sanctuary but
neglect the soil. We celebrate breakthrough but ignore breakdown. We build towers of
praise but leave no compost bins, no rainwater harvesters, no waste systems—just
prayers for God to “take control.” This is not stewardship. This is denial wrapped in
devotion. The prosperity gospel, in its most unvarnished form, presents a theological
framework that mirrors a high-risk, high-reward investment strategy, albeit one with an
alarming disregard for externalized costs. It posits a divine return on earthly
contributions, a spiritual IPO where faith is the capital and material wealth the promised
dividend. The implicit contract is clear: sow generously into the spiritual enterprise, and
God, the ultimate venture capitalist, will ensure a bountiful harvest of personal
prosperity. Yet, this aggressive pursuit of individual gain often overlooks the collective
balance sheet, particularly the environmental liabilities accruing outside the
stained-glass windows. The capital allocated to grand edifices and opulent
displays—the marble, the tinted glass, the brass-plated doors—represents a significant
investment in visible, tangible assets. These are the corporate headquarters of faith,
designed to project an image of divine favor and financial success. But a critical audit
reveals a stark misallocation of resources. While millions are poured into architectural
grandeur and state-of-the-art audiovisual systems, the most fundamental
infrastructure—clean water, sanitation, waste management—remains chronically
underfunded, if funded at all. This is a classic case of prioritizing front-end aesthetics
over back-end sustainability, a financial decision that, in any secular enterprise, would
raise serious questions about long-term viability and ethical governance. The irony is
not lost: the very institutions that preach abundance often operate within a framework of
environmental scarcity, their spiritual wealth accumulated at the expense of a polluted
commons. The breakdown is not merely ecological; it is a breakdown in the
fundamental principles of responsible asset management, a failure to account for the
true cost of doing business on a finite planet. The “breakthroughs” celebrated within
these walls are often predicated on a systemic “breakdown” outside, a hidden subsidy
drawn from the diminishing environmental capital of the communities they serve. This is
not merely a theological oversight; it is a profound economic miscalculation, a
short-sighted investment in the ephemeral at the expense of the enduring. The market,
in this case, is the planet itself, and the current strategy is driving it towards insolvency.
The quiet word, again, has loud consequences.
III. Scriptural Economics: A Forgotten Prospectus
Scripture offers a radically different vision. In Genesis, God places humanity in a
garden—not a shopping mall—and commands us to “work it and take care of it.” The
Levitical laws are full of public health instructions: bury your waste outside the camp, let
the land rest every seven years, leave food in your fields for the poor. In Deuteronomy,
sanitation was holiness. In Psalms, clean water was praise. Jesus Himself spoke of
lilies and birds, mustard seeds and soil—not for metaphor alone, but to point toward a
world that is sacred and interconnected. Today, too many churches preach as if the
Earth is disposable—a temporary stage before heaven’s glory. And in that narrative,
creation care is downgraded to a political issue or an NGO’s job. But climate change is
not political. Dirty water is not partisan. Pollution does not wait for doctrine. It is a moral
crisis. It is a theological crisis. It is a crisis of witness.
The biblical narrative, when stripped of convenient contemporary interpretations,
presents a robust economic framework centered on stewardship, not extraction.
Genesis, often cited for humanity’s “dominion,” is less a license for unfettered
exploitation and more a directive for responsible asset management. The garden, Eden,
is not merely a picturesque backdrop but the original enterprise, a self-sustaining
ecosystem entrusted to human care. The command to “work it and take care of it”
(Genesis 2:15) is the foundational prospectus, outlining a covenantal relationship where
human flourishing is inextricably linked to ecological well-being. This is a far cry from the
modern theological investment strategy that treats the Earth as a depreciating asset, a
temporary holding before a celestial liquidation event.
The Mosaic Law, often dismissed as archaic ritual, reveals a sophisticated
understanding of public health and sustainable resource management. The Levitical
codes, with their meticulous instructions on waste disposal, land Sabbath, and gleaning
for the poor, are not merely spiritual injunctions but practical economic policies designed
to ensure long-term societal and environmental health. Sanitation, in this context, is not
an optional add-on but a core component of holiness, a direct reflection of a
community’s commitment to its covenantal obligations. Clean water, far from being a
mere commodity, is elevated to an act of praise. These are the dividends of a system
where ecological integrity is woven into the very fabric of communal life, a stark contrast
to a contemporary church that often views environmental concerns as an external,
optional line item in the budget.
Jesus’s teachings further underscore this integrated economic vision. His parables, rich
with agricultural imagery—lilies, birds, mustard seeds, soil—are not merely pastoral
metaphors. They are real-world valuations, illustrating principles of growth,
interconnectedness, and the inherent value of creation. The Kingdom of God, as
presented by Christ, is deeply embedded in the material world, demanding a radical
reorientation of priorities. The Earth is not a disposable stage for a grand spiritual
drama; it is an active participant, a co-heir in the divine economy. To relegate climate
change, dirty water, or pollution to the realm of mere politics or NGO responsibility is to
fundamentally misunderstand the scriptural prospectus. These are not partisan issues;
they are moral and theological crises, direct consequences of a flawed economic
theology that has prioritized speculative spiritual gains over tangible earthly
responsibilities. The crisis of witness, then, is the failure to embody this forgotten
scriptural economics, to present a balance sheet that reflects true stewardship rather
than spiritualized neglect. The market, in this divine economy, demands a different kind
of return: not just souls saved, but a planet sustained. The quiet word, once again,
carries the weight of an unfulfilled promise.
IV. The Unaudited Liabilities: Case Studies in Neglect
In Catholic hospitals across 23 African countries, 45% had no budget for water or
sanitation. In many, pregnant women carry buckets into delivery rooms. Meanwhile,
Sunday sermons call for giving “to expand the kingdom,” while not a cedi goes to fix the
broken church toilet or clean the community well. This is not an isolated anecdote; it is a
systemic failure, a stark illustration of unaudited liabilities accumulating on the balance
sheet of faith. The human cost, in this context, is not merely an externality; it is a direct
consequence of a financial theology that prioritizes intangible spiritual returns over the
tangible, life-sustaining infrastructure of the present.
The African context, often viewed through a lens of development aid and spiritual
revival, serves as a microcosm of this macro failure. The image of pregnant women
carrying buckets into delivery rooms in church-affiliated hospitals is not just a
humanitarian crisis; it is a profound indictment of resource misallocation. These
institutions, ostensibly dedicated to healing and care, operate with a fundamental deficit
in the most basic of services. The absence of a budget for water or sanitation in nearly
half of these facilities speaks volumes about the prevailing priorities. It suggests a
strategic decision, however implicit, to defer critical investments in public health
infrastructure, opting instead for expenditures that, while perhaps spiritually gratifying,
offer little in the way of tangible, life-saving returns. The “cedi”—the local currency—that
flows freely into building funds and evangelical crusades, bypasses the broken church
toilet and the contaminated community well. This is not merely a question of poverty; it
is a question of policy, of where the capital of faith is directed, and what returns are truly
valued.
This financial negligence extends beyond the immediate health implications. The
economic burden of poor sanitation and contaminated water is immense, manifesting in
increased healthcare costs, lost productivity due to illness, and a perpetuation of
poverty cycles. These are the hidden costs, the unaudited liabilities that do not appear
on the glossy annual reports of mega-churches or the offering plates passed on Sunday
mornings. They are the deferred maintenance of creation, a growing debt that will
eventually come due, often with compounding interest. The silence from the pulpit on
these matters is not benign; it is a form of complicity, a tacit endorsement of a status
quo that allows spiritual wealth to accumulate while environmental and human capital
erodes. The crisis, then, is not just one of resources, but of moral accounting, a failure
to acknowledge the true cost of a faith that neglects its earthly responsibilities. The quiet
word, in this context, is the deafening silence of unaddressed suffering.
V. Emerging Markets of Repentance: A New Investment
Horizon
And yet, hope is not lost. Across the continent and beyond, a quiet resistance is
building. The Green Anglicans of Africa are training churches in ecological theology.
Pope Francis’s Laudato Si’ has become a global manifesto for “integral
ecology”—linking care for the Earth with care for the poor. Christian groups like A Rocha
are calling believers back to the garden—not in retreat, but in responsibility. But they
cannot be lone voices. We need a Church that preaches soil alongside salvation. A
Church that budgets for boreholes, not just building funds. A Church where Sunday
School teaches compost and clean water as much as memory verses. A Church where
“dominion” means responsibility—not reckless entitlement.
Amidst the accumulating liabilities and the quiet erosion of environmental capital, there
are nascent signs of a different investment strategy emerging within the global faith
community. These are the “emerging markets of repentance,” small but significant
movements that are beginning to re-evaluate the true cost of spiritual prosperity
divorced from ecological responsibility. They represent a recalibration of priorities, a shift
from a purely speculative spiritual economy to one grounded in tangible, sustainable
returns. The Green Anglicans of Africa, for instance, are not merely advocating for
environmental awareness; they are actively investing in ecological theology, training
congregations to understand their role as stewards of creation. This is a form of
intellectual capital investment, recognizing that a fundamental shift in theological
understanding is a prerequisite for behavioral change. Similarly, Pope Francis’s
encyclical Laudato Si’ is not just a pastoral letter; it is a global manifesto for “integral
ecology,” a comprehensive investment thesis that explicitly links care for the Earth with
care for the poor. It is a recognition that social justice and environmental justice are not
separate portfolios but inextricably linked components of a holistic ethical framework.
Christian organizations like A Rocha are not retreating from the world but re-engaging
with it, calling believers back to the “garden”—the original enterprise—not as a nostalgic
escape, but as a renewed commitment to responsibility. These are the green shoots of
a new economic paradigm within faith, demonstrating that spiritual growth and
ecological health are not mutually exclusive but mutually reinforcing.
This emerging investment horizon demands a fundamental re-evaluation of church
budgets and priorities. It calls for a shift from an exclusive focus on “building funds”—the
tangible assets of brick and mortar—to a more diversified portfolio that includes
investments in boreholes, clean water initiatives, and sustainable waste management
systems. It suggests that Sunday School, traditionally focused on memory verses and
biblical narratives, should expand its curriculum to include practical lessons on
composting and clean water, recognizing that these are not merely secular concerns but
integral components of a lived faith. The concept of “dominion,” long misinterpreted as a
license for exploitation, is being re-framed as a call to responsibility, a fiduciary duty to
manage creation’s assets for the benefit of all. This is not merely a moral appeal; it is an
economic imperative. The long-term viability of faith, in a world grappling with ecological
collapse, depends on its ability to demonstrate tangible, positive returns on its
environmental investments. The quiet resistance, then, is not just a spiritual awakening;
it is a strategic repositioning, a recognition that the market for true spiritual leadership
demands a commitment to a sustainable future. The quiet word, in this context, is the
growing murmur of a new, more responsible, investment strategy.
VI. The Reckoning: A Final Statement
So let this be a Sunday of reckoning. Let us confess that we have loved gold more than
green. Let us repent—not in sorrow alone, but in action. Let our pulpits thunder not only
with prophecy but with practical plans: clean-up campaigns, tree planting, solar panels,
low-waste worship, and advocacy for sanitation infrastructure in every congregation. Let
the same hands we lift in worship be the ones that carry a shovel, sweep the gutter, or
fix the tap. For what shall it profit a church to gain a million members, and lose the very
earth beneath them? The earth is not a backdrop. It is the altar. The sanctuary. The
inheritance. It is not enough to build heaven while walking past hell on Earth.
This is the final statement, the closing entry on a ledger that has long been
mismanaged. The call for a “Sunday of reckoning” is not merely a spiritual exhortation; it
is an urgent demand for a financial audit, a moment to confront the true cost of a faith
that has, perhaps inadvertently, prioritized the accumulation of spiritual capital over the
preservation of earthly assets. The confession that “we have loved gold more than
green” is a stark admission of a flawed investment strategy, one that has consistently
undervalued the ecological and social dividends of responsible stewardship.
Repentance, in this context, is not a passive act of contrition but an active
re-investment, a redirection of resources and priorities towards tangible, measurable
outcomes. The thunder from the pulpits, then, must not only echo with prophecy but
resonate with practical plans: clean-up campaigns, tree planting, solar panels,
low-waste worship, and, crucially, advocacy for sanitation infrastructure in every
congregation. These are not merely acts of charity; they are essential capital
expenditures, investments in the long-term viability of both community and planet.
The image of hands lifted in worship also carrying a shovel, sweeping the gutter, or
fixing the tap is not a poetic flourish; it is a direct challenge to the prevailing disconnect
between spiritual aspiration and earthly responsibility. It demands a re-evaluation of
what constitutes true worship, suggesting that genuine devotion extends beyond the
confines of the sanctuary and into the polluted streets and neglected ecosystems. The
rhetorical question, “For what shall it profit a church to gain a million members, and lose
the very earth beneath them?” is a chilling echo of a fundamental economic principle:
the ultimate cost of unchecked growth at the expense of foundational assets. It forces a
re-assessment of value, questioning the sustainability of a spiritual enterprise that
depletes its most fundamental resource. The Earth, in this final accounting, is not a
mere backdrop for human drama; it is the altar, the very ground upon which faith is
practiced, the sanctuary where the divine is encountered, and the inheritance
bequeathed to future generations. To build a metaphorical heaven while walking past a
very real hell on Earth is not merely a moral failing; it is a profound financial
miscalculation, a short-sighted strategy that risks ultimate insolvency. The quiet word, in
its final iteration, is the undeniable truth of a balance sheet that can no longer be
ignored.
Classic Case Of Church Industry: Sanctified Wealth, Polluted Earth & A Financial Reckoning
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