I recently sat with a self-declared philosopher, a man who’s never worn a collar, but wears clarity like a badge. He doesn't attend church anymore. Not out of rebellion, but out of exhaustion. “Modern altars,” he said, “feel more like political podiums. Spiritless spectacles. Gratification for the rich, degradation for the poor, the same poor who, ironically, built most of these churches brick by sacrificial brick.”
He looked at me the way prophets probably looked at priests in exile and asked:
“Do you think political leaders don’t have divine callings too? Are we so drunk on incense that we forget leadership isn’t limited to the pulpit?”
He went on half Socrates, half streetwise sage:
“Some pastors believe proximity to heaven makes them superior. But I’ve seen governors who fix roads, sponsor children to school, and build lives more faithfully than some preachers build churches.”
“Between the man with a microphone and the man with a mandate,” he said, “sometimes it’s the politician who answers destiny more honestly.”
I wanted to challenge him. But the pews are filled with boutique prophets in designer robes, and the offering baskets have grown heavier than their sermons.
He ended our conversation not with fire, but with calm:
“I'm not called to fight leaders. Jesus didn’t protest the Roman Empire, he carried his own cross in peace. So when Nigerians make it a full-time job to curse every leader, I check out. Some of them are more Christlike than the clergy.”
I left our meeting thinking: Maybe salvation isn’t always dressed in cassock. Maybe service wears a suit and tie too. And maybe the kingdom isn’t divided between saints and senators, it’s just waiting for integrity, wherever it shows up.

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