I once visited a church years ago and didn’t feel the familiar warmth of the place I grew up in. I felt like a customer. A stage had replaced the pulpit. The pastor, dressed in designer clothes, paced like a motivational speaker. The message? Give more. Expect more. Pray for abundance. And don’t forget to download the church’s app on your way out.

For generations, the Black church was the heartbeat of our communities. It was where we went to grieve, organize, heal, and dream. It was where we learned who we were and how to survive a world that too often tried to convince us otherwise. But somewhere along the line, many churches traded the work of soul-saving for the performance of prosperity. 

Once a fringe theology, the prosperity gospel is now mainstream in many pulpits. It teaches that wealth is a sign of divine favor, and that tithing (often generously) is the key to unlocking blessings. But the message has lost its anointing for those of us watching our pastors pull up in Bentleys while families in the congregation are choosing between groceries and rent. 

Clearly, I wasn’t alone in feeling a bit uneasy about pastoral peacocking when a clip of famed singer and pastor Marvin Sapp went viral because he repeatedly demanded the doors of the church home be closed until a fundraising goal of $40,000 was met. Later, context was offered, where it was explained that he asked the thousands of parishioners to donate at least $20 each. That context didn’t make much of a difference to me. 

This grift isn’t new (I’m not accusing Sapp of being a grifter, but the outrage from his statements was warranted). It’s easy to see why onlookers were upset by Sapp’s actions because, for generations, we’ve seen religious figures get away with feeding their hefty financial appetites by asking the most vulnerable for their last. But most recently, head-scratching pulpit moments are spotlit thanks to social media. Sapp is just one high-profile example. Additionally, the previous year, Pastor Keion Henderson was another, when he asked for $2100 from each of his congregants for a church building fund. Not to mention, NY-based minister Lamor Whitehead was sentenced to nine years in jail for siphoning money from his vulnerable followers, including $90,000 from a single mother. 

I know that’s an extreme case. Some church leaders will say they’re expanding their ministries—investing in livestream equipment, youth programs, and national conferences. And yes, modern ministry costs money. But when the books are closed, transparency is scarce, and the pastor’s lifestyle doesn’t reflect the reality of the average congregant, people start asking questions.

And they should.

Younger generations are already voting with their feet. Millennials and Gen Z are walking away from organized religion more than ever. And while it’s easy to write this off as spiritual laziness or rebellion, it’s more profound: discernment.

I’m not anti-church. I’m a product of the Black church. It taught me resilience, gave me language for joy and grief, and introduced me to community care. But I also believe in accountability. I think faith should empower, not exploit. And I believe too many churches have confused being “blessed” with being rich. What I’ve been seeing in churches with these exploitative pastors are not of God. 

There’s an unsettling expectation of payment for what’s supposed to be free: interpreting the word of God. It’s already enough that church institutions aren’t beholden to the exact fiscal requirements as other businesses of the same size and scale. Some pastors also want to earn the same salaries as Fortune 500 CEOs. 

While we’re on the topic, let’s talk about tax breaks. Based on their 501(c)(3) status, churches in America are mainly exempt from taxes because they provide a public good. But increasingly, it feels like that “good” is being reserved for those at the top. Where are the free clinics, job programs, and housing assistance funds our communities desperately need? If churches enjoy government-sanctioned financial privileges, shouldn’t there be a requirement to reinvest in the people? 

We’re looking for faith that heals, feels real, for leaders who serve more than they shine, and churches that build community, not just capital.

The Black Church doesn’t need to die. It needs to evolve. It needs to return to its roots of radical love, communal support, and truth-telling. It needs to remember that the gospel was never meant to be a business plan—it was meant to be a blueprint for liberation.

We need it now more than ever. If we can find our way back to that, there's still hope. But if not, don’t be surprised when the pews keep emptying and the people see God elsewhere…within themselves.