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By Akin Olaniyan
I avoid arguments about the conduct of pastors on social media and this article is not an attempt to find another way to question them.
It should be clear by now, to them and their followers, that the anointing does not cover up for bad conduct on social media. Unlike the God of the Bible, the social media space does not forgive; you err, you receive your judgment instantly.
Regardless, this piece has been inspired by two recent but unrelated events in the Pentecostal movement in Nigeria. The decision of Bishop David Abioye to promptly launch his own church (ignore the fact that it is called ‘ministry’) after his forced retirement from Winners Chapel and that of Pastor Idowu Iluyomade to follow the same path in the aftermath of his suspension by the Redeemed Christian Church of God (RCCG) has understandably generated online reactions.
It appears that many of the comments on the decisions by these revered men of God had been motivated by anything other than their love to serve. It is difficult to determine whether the attention they have received would have been different had they not attained something of ‘celebrity’ status in their pastoral assignments.
Remember that in the attention economy, such clout can easily be monetised, and that any inquiry into how it is pursued and appropriated is fair.
As I mentioned earlier, I refrain from joining such arguments. Still, the public angst and the very suggestion that the decisions by both Pastors Abioye and Iluyomade were business decisions have prompted some reasonable inquiry into the performance of the Pentecostal church and the motivation for service in the digital age.
That sort of inquiry is in order and may help fill some gaps in our collective understanding of the church or its increasingly optimised participation in the attention economy.
Until Pastor Jerry Eze, a Nigerian pastor, emerged as the highest-paid content creator on YouTube in 2023 with cumulative earnings of N7 billion, attention had been on the like of Mark Angel and other skit makers as the only ones who have mastered how to profit from video content on the platform.
In a way, the sudden realisation that Pastor Jerry Eze’s daily livestream, New Season Prophetic Prayers and Declarations (NSPPD), is viewed by millions across geographical and cultural boundaries calls attention to issues around the intersection of faith, technology, and commerce.
I believe, therefore, that now is a perfect time to critically explore the political economy of Pentecostal church livestreaming and the convergence of spirituality, digital innovation and economic opportunity.
Nigerian Pentecostalism thrives on the experiential and emotional, combining an energetic mix of sermon, expressive worship, prayer, miracles and livestreaming is helping to almost transform worship into a spectacle, where aesthetics and performance play critical roles.
These provide a highly engaging religious encounter, which in turn feeds the experience that is the perfect model for YouTube content.
Covid-19 probably hastened the process but it looks like livestreaming of religious services has moved beyond a pandemic-era format to become not just a feature of modern worship but also a business model with the added motivation that church programming can easily be adjusted to fit platform demands.
This approach is opening up new revenue streams that were previously unimaginable including from platforms like YouTube, which reward creators based on engagement metrics such as views, likes, and shares.
In Pastor Jerry Eze’s case, the millions of daily viewers mean significant advertising revenue – a modern-day equivalent of passing the offering basket on a global scale.
I don’t have access to the breakdown of the earnings from the NSPPD but typically livestreaming enables direct financial support through features like YouTube Super Chats, where viewers can make donations during live broadcasts.
It potentially could allow churches to monetise their global reach by selling branded merchandise, offering online courses, and encouraging digital tithing.
The result is a model where the vast and diverse digital audience is increasingly becoming a crucial component of the revenue collections of churches, in some cases surpassing the traditional reliance on local congregational support.
The obvious questions from this is: How is the church benefiting from the balance of power, which in the digital ecosystem is stacked in favour of the platform owners?
So, while pastors like Jerry Eze profit, platforms like YouTube set the tone, with their algorithms controlling who sees what and rewarding the performance that gets the most eyeballs. With the balance of power making them the weaker partner, content creators – including those from the powerful Pentecostal movement – must depend on opaque corporate systems for visibility and income.
It begs the question: Would they be able to resist the temptation to amend worship for it to fit the spectacle that helps them reach the performance threshold for monetisation on digital platforms?
Perhaps the most profound implication of the livestreaming of Pentecostal worship is the globalisation of an event that is not only religious but has cultural implications as well.
Think about worshippers joining a church service real-time from London, Lagos, Houston or Calgary and you can picture the sense of community, especially among the diaspora, many of whom like to hold on to the cultural familiarity and spiritual nourishment from home.
As churches rush to provide the content, platforms like YouTube win big in the financial appropriation of the collective time ordinary people spend in viewing. Never mind the fact that the ordinary people don’t get paid though they provide the engagement that oils the digital money machine.
Ethical and theological dilemma
Which leads to the real ethical and theological dilemmas that I see here. Given the huge revenue being generated from these events, does it not suggest that faith is being commercialised? If the answer is yes, does Christian worship risk becoming a high-income event that strips Pentecostalism of its sacredness.
I can relate to critics who focus on what looks like the monetisation of church worship because there is a risk that it could dilute the spiritual message, thus reducing worship to a transactional experience.
There is the additional challenge of a worsening of the digital inequality as livestreaming goes mainstream. Ideally, livestreaming should expand access to worship, in the same way that the Internet democratised communication.
However, livestreaming may more likely privilege those with reliable Internet connection and the devices with the capacity to stream.
As it usually does, this might relegate congregants who lack the resources that enable their full participation at such events. Where that leaves the church of ‘God-for-all,’ only time will tell.
Yet, there are other implications. While the issue of livestreaming highlights the complex interplay of technology, culture, and commerce; it also underscores the contestations around the power dynamics in the digital ecosystem, which ensures that content creators will always be at the mercy of algorithms and corporate policies.
In the final analysis, while livestreaming of events like Pentecostal worship appears to redefine culture and community because it offers new ways for people to connect; it also highlights the usual complexities associated with new frontiers and how they impact people.
Pastor Jerry Eze’s breakthrough as YouTube’s highest-paid content creator highlights the potential of using new media formats for gospel ministry and global outreach.
However, the political economy of Pentecostal worship streaming will challenge all Christians to ensure that as faith, technology, and commerce converge, the church does not lose sight of its spiritual heart for the great commission.
