Go and change before you come back here to give God his due honor. Bola sat still, his heart sinking. But he couldn’t do anything.
He had never been so humiliated in his life. It was time for seed sowing, a regular routine in the church. A single mother named Florence, who had just come back from the hospital after a difficult delivery, brought her son with her to church.
Florence barely had money for food, much less offering. But she scraped together N200, which she gave with a hopeful heart. Father Clement took the offering and paused.
He looked at the N200 note for a long moment as if weighing it. Look at this, he muttered loudly enough for the whole congregation to hear. A woman with a baby comes here to give God knee? 200.
God didn’t ask for your crumbs. I hope you know this isn’t what he wants. Florence’s eyes filled with tears.
Her shoulders slumped as she walked back to her seat, completely broken. Several people, including church elders and a few well-meaning members, tried to approach Father Clement about his behavior. They saw the hurt he was causing but were too afraid to speak out.
However, a few brave souls did muster the courage to have a conversation with him. Elder Stephen, a long-serving member of the church, approached Father Clement one afternoon after service. His face was stern but compassionate.
Father Clement, he began. I’ve been a member of this church for over 30 years, and I’ve watched you closely. You’ve done so much good for this community, but we’ve seen how you treat the poor.
We’ve seen how you humiliate them, embarrass them in front of the congregation. Father Clement’s expression tightened. What are you talking about, Elder? He said dismissively.
I’m just teaching them how to respect God properly. If they want to bring something to the altar, they should bring their best. Your words are causing pain, Father, Elder Stephen said softly.
We don’t chase away the poor. We don’t humiliate them. God doesn’t measure us by the size of our offerings or the clothes we wear.
You’re hurting the spirit of the church, Father Clement scoffed. I do what’s best for this church. If you can’t see that, then maybe you should leave.
The elder stood in silence for a moment, then walked away, shaking his head. I tried. Two weeks later, another member, Sister Margaret, a kind woman with a soft voice, asked to speak with the priest.
She had always respected him, but had begun to feel uncomfortable with the way things were going. Father Clement, she began gently, I have noticed the way you speak to some of our members, especially those who don’t have much. I know your intentions might be good, but it’s becoming too much.
People are leaving the church because they feel unloved. Father Clement turned, his eyes narrowing. What are you trying to say, Sister? Are you implying that I’m wrong for wanting the best for God’s house? I’m not saying you’re wrong, Sister Margaret replied.
But we can’t use God’s house to shame people. The poor are just as important to God as the rich. They deserve love, not judgment.
Father Clement’s face reddened. If you want to coddle them, then perhaps you should start your own church. But this is my house, and I do what’s necessary for it to grow.
Sister Margaret sighed and left, knowing it was useless. She watched as more and more members walked away in silence, the church slowly turning into a place of competition and greed. Rain fell gently outside the tinted windows of a black SUV, blurring the world into water-colored streaks.
Inside, silence reigned. The only sound was the soft beeping of a heart. Monitor connected to the man in the back seat.
Chief Bamadele Okonkwo, billionaire, oil mogul, and self-made tycoon, sat staring blankly at the file in his hands. The doctor’s words echoed in his ears like a bell that refused to fade. Stage four cancer, sir.
It’s terminal. He had heard that phrase before. On TV, in movies.
But now it was real. His time was ticking. Months, maybe weeks.
Alone in the world. No children, no wife. Everyone around him wanted something from him.
His money, his name, his connections. But no one truly cared about his soul. What’s left? He whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the rain.
His secretary, a quiet, observant young man named Daniel, sat beside him. Sir, maybe we can use what time you have left to do something meaningful. Something that will outlive you.
Chief Bamadele nodded slowly. Yes, I want to give back to God. To people.
Before I leave this world. Not another yacht. Not another building.
Something eternal. Daniel cleared his throat. We’ve been researching good churches and orphanages.
Places that could use a donation. Forget the mega churches, the chief interrupted. I want to find a church that truly serves God.
One that helps the poor. Not the proud. A place where people are healed, not humiliated.
Daniel hesitated. There’s one church in town everyone talks about, he said cautiously. Huge cathedral.
Richest in the city, but the rumors about the priest. Let’s go there, the chief said suddenly. Today.
But sir, I want to see it with my own eyes. No appointments. No recognition.
I’ll disguise myself. Let’s see if their love for God includes strangers and the poor. Back at the church, Reverend Father Clement stood proudly at the altar.
His robe embroidered with golden crosses and tiny diamonds. He spoke not of sin or salvation, but of status and sacrifice. God loves a cheerful giver, he announced.
And the more you give, the more you receive. Who among you will sow a seed of N5 million today? Applause echoed. Ushers passed around velvet offering bags.
The choir sang about abundance and favor. Wealth was no longer a testimony. It was the gospel itself.
Just then, the church doors creaked open. Heads turned. A man walked in slowly, leaning on a cane.
His clothes were old and stained. His sandals were worn out. A faded cap covered his head.
His eyes, however, were sharp, watching everything. It was Chief Bamadel in disguise. He made his way to a side bench away from the spotlight.
Daniel followed silently behind, posing as a humble assistant. My wonderful viewers, before we dive back into the story, if you’re enjoying this story, please show some love. Hit that like button and tell us in the comments, where in the world are you watching from? Don’t forget to subscribe to our channel.
Yes, you, because every click, every comment, every subscription keeps this story fire burning. Now, let’s return to the story. Father Clement glanced at them once and immediately frowned.
He leaned toward one of the ushers and whispered, who let those beggars in here? They just walked in, sir, the usher replied nervously. Well, walk them out. This isn’t a refugee camp.
This is God’s sanctuary, not a garbage bin. The usher hesitated, but Father Clement raised his voice. You old man with the cane, he barked.
The music stopped. Everyone turned. Did you lose your way? The beggar’s center is down the street.
The disguised billionaire didn’t respond. You must be mad to walk in here like that, Father Clement continued. Do you wanna bring curses into God’s house with your poverty? Soft laughter rippled through the congregation.
Someone even took a picture. Chief Bamadel stood up, his hands trembling. I thought this was a place for the broken, he said quietly.
But it seems only the beautiful are allowed to worship here. Father Clement scoffed. God deserves honor, not pity parties.
Please leave before you defile the altar. The old man turned and walked out slowly. Outside, he leaned on his cane and looked up at the sky.