I have often said that the most painful poverty is the one found in a place of supposed abundance. And there is no place richer in words, promises, and symbols of blessing than the church. Yet, it is also where I have seen some of the poorest souls — not poor in money, but poor in mercy, fairness, and truth.
The church should be the table where everyone eats. But in many places, it has become a stage where a few are fed while others serve. It’s strange how a house meant for healing can become a mirror of the very hunger it preaches against. I have stood in sanctuaries where the poor were invisible — where their labor filled the room, but their presence was treated like background noise.
When I first came to Karen, I used to go with my employer to church every Sunday. It was a large building, polished floors, bright lights, and expensive sound systems that could make even whispers sound holy. I would sit in the back, close to the door, sometimes with other house helps and guards. We came early to arrange chairs and stayed late to clean them. During the service, we clapped, we sang, we prayed. But when it was time to recognize “important members,” we were never mentioned. We were the shadow of the church’s shine.
The poor in the church are the ones who do the unseen work. They are the ones who sweep the sanctuary before the sermon, who iron the pastor’s robe, who fetch water for the choir, who serve tea during meetings, who guard the gate while the congregation sings. Their names are never called, but their fingerprints are everywhere. The lights shine because they turned them on. The microphones work because they tested them. The chairs are neatly arranged because their hands placed them. But when blessings are declared, they are not seen.
It always puzzled me — how the same people who shouted “God is love” could step over a hungry person on their way to the altar. How a pastor could preach about heaven while ignoring the hell his workers lived in. How the church could build massive buildings but forget the people who built them. The poor in the church are not just those who lack money; they are those whose faith is used as a cushion for someone else’s comfort.
I remember one Sunday vividly. The preacher’s message was about “sowing seeds for blessings.” He said, “If you want to reap abundance, you must give sacrificially!” His voice thundered, his eyes blazed with passion. People shouted “Amen!” and rushed to the altar with White envelopes. I watched as some gave what they didn’t have, hoping for miracles. My employer stood and gave a large envelope. The congregation clapped. Her name was announced with honor. But as I sat there, something inside me ached. Because I knew she gave from excess, not sacrifice. I knew the same woman who sowed into the church had never sown kindness into her own kitchen. And I wondered, does God accept an offering that walks on someone else’s back?
The poor in the church have been taught to equate silence with humility. They are told that serving without recognition is holy. That questioning inequality is rebellion. That their reward is in heaven. And so, they endure — cooking, cleaning, giving, organizing — while others collect glory on earth. It’s a strange trade: you give your labor to buy another’s reputation.
Sometimes, I would listen to testimonies and feel conflicted. A deacon would say, “I thank God, He promoted me at work!” The church would cheer. But the same promotion often came from overworking those beneath them. I thought about how easily we call success “blessing,” without asking if it came from justice. We celebrate provision but rarely question the process. In that silence, the poor in the church remain voiceless, their pain sanctified as “God’s will.”
I used to stay behind after services to clean. When everyone had left, I would walk slowly through the empty sanctuary. The same hands that had lifted in worship now held brooms. I would sweep the same floor that had been called “holy ground.” And as I moved quietly, I often felt a strange peace — because in that silence, I could speak to God without intermediaries. No titles, no ranks, no microphones — just me and Him.
One afternoon, as I was wiping the pulpit, I whispered, “God, do You see me?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I felt one. A warmth spread through my chest — gentle, wordless, but clear. It was as if He said, “I see what others overlook. I sit where you stand.” And for a moment, I knew that heaven’s eyes do not follow the stage lights — they follow sincerity.
That day, I began to separate God from religion. I began to understand that faith is not the property of pastors or pews — it’s the heartbeat of the invisible. The poor in the church are often the truest believers because their faith is not built on comfort. They believe without conditions. They serve without applause. They pray without microphones. They trust God without guarantees.
But it is still painful to watch how churches exalt those who have and silence those who need. How the wealthy are given front seats while the poor are told to “find space at the back.” How church leaders travel in comfort while their members walk miles to attend services. How some pastors preach prosperity while surrounded by servants living in poverty.
I began to notice something else — that some of the poorest in church are not financially poor at all. They are emotionally starved, spiritually burnt out. They are leaders carrying burdens they can’t share, choirs singing songs they no longer believe, volunteers smiling through exhaustion. They are trapped in a cycle of service that feeds others but drains them dry. The church calls them faithful; I call them famished.
One evening, after a long service, I overheard two ushers whispering. One said, “I haven’t paid rent in two months, but I can’t stop serving. Maybe God will see my faith.” The other nodded, “Yes, God will provide.” I wanted to hug them both. Faith is beautiful, but faith should not be used to justify neglect. God’s provision often comes through people — yet many hide behind His name to avoid being that provision.
I have also seen poor pastors — not poor in money, but poor in freedom. They preach what pleases the wealthy because truth might cost them donations. They bend their sermons to keep tithes flowing. They become servants of the system rather than shepherds of souls. And the sheep follow, thinking it is faith. The poor in the church are not always in the pews — sometimes they stand behind the pulpit.
One Sunday, during communion, I looked at the bread and the cup on the altar and almost cried. Because I realized that even in the Lord’s Supper, many are still only serving, not eating. The very table meant for equality has become another stage for hierarchy. The servants prepare the bread but are told to wait. Yet Jesus, the true Master, once broke bread with His disciples — no servants, no titles, only fellowship. How far we have drifted.
The poor in the church are everywhere — from the choir loft to the church gate. They are the mothers praying for school fees, the fathers hiding unemployment behind suits, the youth who come for hope but leave heavier. And yet, they are the ones who keep the church alive. They are the ones who sing, clean, build, and give. The church’s heartbeat is theirs — but their names rarely appear in its records.
If I have learned anything, it is this: God is not impressed by stained glass or polished pulpits. He lives in the humble heart that gives quietly. He eats with those who have nothing left but faith. The poor in the church are the ones closest to heaven because they have learned to love God without bargaining.
Now, whenever I enter a church, I no longer look for the pastor. I look for the janitor, the usher, the mother at the back with her child, the man fixing the microphone, the young person counting the offering with tired eyes. These are the real ministers — the ones who serve God without spotlight.
And I say this with love but also truth: the church must repent, not for its sermons, but for its silence. It must remember that Jesus was not born in a palace but in a manger — the poorest of places. He chose the company of fishermen, widows, and servants. He cooked fish for His disciples; He washed their feet. If He walked into some of our sanctuaries today, He would not sit in the front row — He would sit with the poor at the back.
The day the church learns to share its meat with those who cook it, revival will truly begin. Because revival is not more noise or bigger buildings — it is when love becomes fair. It is when those who sweep the floor are invited to the table. It is when service is honored, not exploited. It is when every believer, rich or poor, can say, “I am part of this family — not by position, but by grace.” Until then, the poor in the church will keep cooking meat and eating bread — but their prayers, I believe, are the fire that keeps heaven lit.
The church should be the table where everyone eats. But in many places, it has become a stage where a few are fed while others serve. It’s strange how a house meant for healing can become a mirror of the very hunger it preaches against. I have stood in sanctuaries where the poor were invisible — where their labor filled the room, but their presence was treated like background noise.
When I first came to Karen, I used to go with my employer to church every Sunday. It was a large building, polished floors, bright lights, and expensive sound systems that could make even whispers sound holy. I would sit in the back, close to the door, sometimes with other house helps and guards. We came early to arrange chairs and stayed late to clean them. During the service, we clapped, we sang, we prayed. But when it was time to recognize “important members,” we were never mentioned. We were the shadow of the church’s shine.
The poor in the church are the ones who do the unseen work. They are the ones who sweep the sanctuary before the sermon, who iron the pastor’s robe, who fetch water for the choir, who serve tea during meetings, who guard the gate while the congregation sings. Their names are never called, but their fingerprints are everywhere. The lights shine because they turned them on. The microphones work because they tested them. The chairs are neatly arranged because their hands placed them. But when blessings are declared, they are not seen.
It always puzzled me — how the same people who shouted “God is love” could step over a hungry person on their way to the altar. How a pastor could preach about heaven while ignoring the hell his workers lived in. How the church could build massive buildings but forget the people who built them. The poor in the church are not just those who lack money; they are those whose faith is used as a cushion for someone else’s comfort.
I remember one Sunday vividly. The preacher’s message was about “sowing seeds for blessings.” He said, “If you want to reap abundance, you must give sacrificially!” His voice thundered, his eyes blazed with passion. People shouted “Amen!” and rushed to the altar with White envelopes. I watched as some gave what they didn’t have, hoping for miracles. My employer stood and gave a large envelope. The congregation clapped. Her name was announced with honor. But as I sat there, something inside me ached. Because I knew she gave from excess, not sacrifice. I knew the same woman who sowed into the church had never sown kindness into her own kitchen. And I wondered, does God accept an offering that walks on someone else’s back?
The poor in the church have been taught to equate silence with humility. They are told that serving without recognition is holy. That questioning inequality is rebellion. That their reward is in heaven. And so, they endure — cooking, cleaning, giving, organizing — while others collect glory on earth. It’s a strange trade: you give your labor to buy another’s reputation.
Sometimes, I would listen to testimonies and feel conflicted. A deacon would say, “I thank God, He promoted me at work!” The church would cheer. But the same promotion often came from overworking those beneath them. I thought about how easily we call success “blessing,” without asking if it came from justice. We celebrate provision but rarely question the process. In that silence, the poor in the church remain voiceless, their pain sanctified as “God’s will.”
I used to stay behind after services to clean. When everyone had left, I would walk slowly through the empty sanctuary. The same hands that had lifted in worship now held brooms. I would sweep the same floor that had been called “holy ground.” And as I moved quietly, I often felt a strange peace — because in that silence, I could speak to God without intermediaries. No titles, no ranks, no microphones — just me and Him.
One afternoon, as I was wiping the pulpit, I whispered, “God, do You see me?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I felt one. A warmth spread through my chest — gentle, wordless, but clear. It was as if He said, “I see what others overlook. I sit where you stand.” And for a moment, I knew that heaven’s eyes do not follow the stage lights — they follow sincerity.
That day, I began to separate God from religion. I began to understand that faith is not the property of pastors or pews — it’s the heartbeat of the invisible. The poor in the church are often the truest believers because their faith is not built on comfort. They believe without conditions. They serve without applause. They pray without microphones. They trust God without guarantees.
But it is still painful to watch how churches exalt those who have and silence those who need. How the wealthy are given front seats while the poor are told to “find space at the back.” How church leaders travel in comfort while their members walk miles to attend services. How some pastors preach prosperity while surrounded by servants living in poverty.
I began to notice something else — that some of the poorest in church are not financially poor at all. They are emotionally starved, spiritually burnt out. They are leaders carrying burdens they can’t share, choirs singing songs they no longer believe, volunteers smiling through exhaustion. They are trapped in a cycle of service that feeds others but drains them dry. The church calls them faithful; I call them famished.
One evening, after a long service, I overheard two ushers whispering. One said, “I haven’t paid rent in two months, but I can’t stop serving. Maybe God will see my faith.” The other nodded, “Yes, God will provide.” I wanted to hug them both. Faith is beautiful, but faith should not be used to justify neglect. God’s provision often comes through people — yet many hide behind His name to avoid being that provision.
I have also seen poor pastors — not poor in money, but poor in freedom. They preach what pleases the wealthy because truth might cost them donations. They bend their sermons to keep tithes flowing. They become servants of the system rather than shepherds of souls. And the sheep follow, thinking it is faith. The poor in the church are not always in the pews — sometimes they stand behind the pulpit.
One Sunday, during communion, I looked at the bread and the cup on the altar and almost cried. Because I realized that even in the Lord’s Supper, many are still only serving, not eating. The very table meant for equality has become another stage for hierarchy. The servants prepare the bread but are told to wait. Yet Jesus, the true Master, once broke bread with His disciples — no servants, no titles, only fellowship. How far we have drifted.
The poor in the church are everywhere — from the choir loft to the church gate. They are the mothers praying for school fees, the fathers hiding unemployment behind suits, the youth who come for hope but leave heavier. And yet, they are the ones who keep the church alive. They are the ones who sing, clean, build, and give. The church’s heartbeat is theirs — but their names rarely appear in its records.
If I have learned anything, it is this: God is not impressed by stained glass or polished pulpits. He lives in the humble heart that gives quietly. He eats with those who have nothing left but faith. The poor in the church are the ones closest to heaven because they have learned to love God without bargaining.
Now, whenever I enter a church, I no longer look for the pastor. I look for the janitor, the usher, the mother at the back with her child, the man fixing the microphone, the young person counting the offering with tired eyes. These are the real ministers — the ones who serve God without spotlight.
And I say this with love but also truth: the church must repent, not for its sermons, but for its silence. It must remember that Jesus was not born in a palace but in a manger — the poorest of places. He chose the company of fishermen, widows, and servants. He cooked fish for His disciples; He washed their feet. If He walked into some of our sanctuaries today, He would not sit in the front row — He would sit with the poor at the back.
The day the church learns to share its meat with those who cook it, revival will truly begin. Because revival is not more noise or bigger buildings — it is when love becomes fair. It is when those who sweep the floor are invited to the table. It is when service is honored, not exploited. It is when every believer, rich or poor, can say, “I am part of this family — not by position, but by grace.” Until then, the poor in the church will keep cooking meat and eating bread — but their prayers, I believe, are the fire that keeps heaven lit.
