Is God A Banker? Unmasking The Idol Of Prosperity In Africa’s Pulpits

By Emmanuel Mihiingo Kaija

The airwaves of African Christianity today hum with the promises of wealth, victory, and supernatural breakthrough. Yet beneath this thunderous optimism lies a haunting question that echoes from the sacred altars to the dusty streets: Is God a banker? This provocative query is not merely rhetorical—it strikes at the very heart of theological integrity in African pulpits. In the sprawling cities of Lagos, Kampala, Accra, and Johannesburg, prosperity preachers build vast congregations around the theology of accumulation, interpreting Scripture through the gilded lens of material reward. At first glance, this may appear as a localized phenomenon, but a deeper historical excavation reveals a broader narrative shaped by colonial capitalism, theological drift, and sociocultural desperation. The prosperity gospel, with its seductive promises of wealth for the faithful, has metastasized across Africa’s ecclesiastical landscape like wildfire in harmattan wind, igniting both hope and heresy.

Historically, the emergence of prosperity theology in Africa cannot be understood without tracing its genealogical roots in the United States during the early 20th century. Figures such as E.W. Kenyon, Oral Roberts, and Kenneth Hagin laid the theological groundwork for what would later become the Word of Faith movement. Their message—rooted in New Thought metaphysics and wrapped in biblical language—promoted the belief that faith is a force and words are containers of power capable of producing tangible wealth. These doctrines crossed oceans via televangelism, missionary networks, and literature, eventually embedding themselves within post-colonial African churches seeking to overcome the twin legacies of economic subjugation and spiritual suppression. In Uganda, for example, prosperity preachers found fertile ground in the aftermath of political instability, where economic dreams and spiritual yearnings converged in the sanctuary. The historical trauma of colonization and structural poverty created a theological vacuum now occupied by the lucrative promises of divine wealth. This is not merely a question of doctrine but of identity and memory—a tragic re-enactment of Mammon worship under the guise of biblical faith.

Biblically, the claims of prosperity theology stand on a shaky exegesis, often weaponizing verses such as Malachi 3:10—“Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse…and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven”—while neglecting the covenantal context and the social justice imperatives embedded in the prophets. The Hebrew term for blessing, “בְּרָכָה” (berakah), carries both spiritual and communal dimensions, never reduced to personal wealth. Similarly, 3 John 1:2 is frequently extracted to suggest God’s overriding concern is the believer’s material wealth, yet the Greek “εὐοδόω” (euodoō) more accurately implies holistic well-being—journeying well, spiritually and physically—not stockpiling riches. Paul, in Philippians 4:12, shatters prosperity myths with brutal honesty: “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well-fed or hungry.” Thus, any theology that makes material wealth the litmus test of divine favor betrays the core gospel of Christ crucified—a gospel rooted in redemptive suffering, not capital accumulation. It substitutes the Cross with a contract, grace with greed, and sanctification with self-help.

Theologically, the prosperity gospel represents a dangerous form of syncretism—a fusion of Pentecostal pneumatology with capitalist consumerism. Systematic theology teaches that the attributes of God are indivisible and interconnected: His omnipotence does not negate His holiness, and His goodness is not a guarantee of temporal comfort. When divine generosity is decoupled from divine sovereignty, what remains is a transactional deity—a heavenly banker rather than a suffering Savior. This reductionist theology flirts with Pelagianism, the ancient heresy that elevates human effort above divine grace, now garbed in contemporary slogans like “sow a seed for your miracle.” Moreover, it distorts eschatology. Instead of longing for the renewal of all things in the Kingdom of God, believers are encouraged to create personal Edens through faith investments. The Church’s historical confessions—be they the Westminster Catechism, the Apostles’ Creed, or Nicaean formulations—do not celebrate gold but glory, not surplus but sanctification.

From a sociological lens, the spread of prosperity theology in Africa must be understood as a response to chronic poverty, limited access to upward mobility, and systemic corruption. The World Bank estimates that over 40% of Sub-Saharan Africa lives below the poverty line, while unemployment and inflation continue to rise. In such a climate, the gospel of “name it and claim it” becomes psychologically soothing. As sociologist Paul Gifford observes in African Christianity: Its Public Role, prosperity churches often function as “emotional welfare systems” for the disenfranchised. Yet this pastoral model lacks accountability, replacing prophetic critique of injustice with docile optimism. The prophet no longer stands before kings with trembling lips but shares selfies with politicians. The shepherd no longer feeds the flock but charges them “partnership seeds.” Here lies the tragedy: the Church, once a counter-cultural force against empire and idolatry, now genuflects before the golden calf of consumerism.

Psychologically and anthropologically, the prosperity movement also appeals to the African traditional worldview, which often views wealth as a sign of divine favor and misfortune as a curse. The African religio-cultural consciousness, historically steeped in ancestral veneration and spiritual mediation, finds resonance in the prosperity preacher’s promise of spiritual causality—sow this seed, break that curse. This is not new; it is merely recycled divination in Pentecostal packaging. Prosperity preachers become modern-day oracles, mediating blessings in exchange for allegiance and financial loyalty. The emphasis shifts from discipleship to deliverance, from worship to wealth, from Scripture to spectacle. As theologian Allan Anderson notes in An Introduction to Pentecostalism, this theological trajectory can become a spiritual narcotic, numbing critical consciousness and discouraging socio-political action.

What, then, is the Church’s alternative witness? The early Church’s example offers a luminous rebuke. In Acts 2:44-45, believers sold their possessions and gave to any in need. Paul, in 2 Corinthians 8–9, raises offerings not for building cathedrals but for famine relief. Jesus Himself warns in Matthew 6:24, “You cannot serve both God and Mammon.” The Hebrew word for wealth, “עָשִׁיר” (ashir), is used sparingly in a positive light. The rich young ruler in Mark 10 walks away sorrowful, and James 5:1 declares, “Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you.” The prophetic imagination—so vital to biblical justice—is stifled by prosperity rhetoric. Where is the Amos who cries, “Let justice roll down like waters”? Where is the Nehemiah who rebukes nobles for exploiting the poor? The Church must retrieve its prophetic soul.

In conclusion, the question “Is God a banker?” is not a mere provocation—it is a theological reckoning. Africa’s pulpits must be purged of spiritual capitalism and returned to the cruciform path of Jesus. Historical awareness, biblical fidelity, theological integrity, and social responsibility must converge to form a new ecclesial imagination—one that prioritizes character over cash, community over consumption, and the Kingdom over commodities. The prosperity gospel, when left unchallenged, becomes not just a doctrinal error but an idol that disfigures the face of God. It reduces the sacred to the transactional and converts the sanctuary into a showroom. To unmask the idol of prosperity is not to deny God’s provision but to relocate it within the wider economy of grace, justice, and sacrificial love. The African Church must dare to ask again, not what God can give me, but who God is, and what He calls us to become.

Emkaijawrites@gmail.com