THE WAGES OF GREED

The Making Of A False Shepherd

Great. Here’s Part 1 – The Making of a False Shepherd

Pastor Johnson was born in a small, dust-covered village where the evenings smelled of burning wood and the mornings began with the crow of roosters. His mother often said, “The Lord has marked this boy for His work.” When he was twelve, he could already quote long passages from the Psalms. The neighbours called him “little preacher.”

Those early years were honest ones. He walked barefoot to school, carried a torn Bible everywhere, and dreamed of saving souls. When his father died of fever, he told his mother, “I will serve God, and He will take care of us.” She smiled, wiping her eyes, whispering Matthew 6: 33 – But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.

Years later, in the city, the world looked different. Neon lights blinked above crumbling streets; preachers shouted from loudspeakers promising instant miracles. Johnson, now a thin young man with burning ambition, joined a small church as an assistant pastor. He loved the pulpit, the way eyes followed him, the way his words made people shout amen.

At first, he truly meant every sermon. He prayed through the nights, fasted, and visited the sick. But the offerings were small, and hunger pressed like a weight on his ribs. He would pass by other churches with marble floors and tinted cars outside, hearing of pastors who owned estates. He began to wonder if perhaps “faith” could also mean abundance.

One evening, after service, he overheard two elders talking. “People give more when you make them believe their miracle depends on it,” one said with a chuckle. The phrase rooted itself in Johnson’s mind like a seed in fertile soil.

He preached that Sunday with new fire. He told the congregation, “Your blessing is in your seed! Sow it now, and heaven will open for you.” Coins and small notes filled the basket. He looked at the heap, felt the first tremor of excitement—and fear. Is this wrong? he wondered. Then he brushed the thought aside. The church needs the money. God understands.

That night he counted the offering twice. His conscience whispered 1 Timothy 6: 10 – For the love of money is the root of all evil. He closed the Bible quickly and told himself he only wanted to build God’s work.

Success came fast. People said miracles happened when he prayed. A barren woman conceived; a sick child recovered. Johnson himself didn’t understand how—coincidence, perhaps—but the stories spread. Soon crowds overflowed the rented hall. He changed the name of the church to “Fire of Glory Ministries.”

The offerings multiplied. He wore tailored suits, drove a second-hand car, and spoke of “kingdom prosperity.” His sermons were laced with selective verses: Give, and it shall be given unto you (Luke 6 : 38). He shouted them until the people emptied their pockets, weeping for blessings.

Behind closed doors, the elders began to murmur. “He talks more about giving than salvation,” one said. But no one dared confront him directly; the membership adored him. Johnson felt untouchable.

He built a new church building—huge banners, bright lights, loud music. Every corner carried his face smiling beside slogans like Your Miracle Begins With Your Seed. The first Sunday in the new auditorium, he looked over the sea of people and felt something shift inside: not gratitude, but ownership. This is mine.

After service, a young widow approached him with trembling hands. “Pastor, I have nothing but this small saving,” she said, placing a crumpled envelope before him. “Pray that God heals my son.” Johnson hesitated. For a moment compassion flickered. Then he smiled, placed a hand on her head, and declared loudly, “Your faith has healed him!”

When she left, he slipped the envelope into his pocket. That night he couldn’t sleep. The boy’s face haunted him. But by morning the unease had faded. The money paid for new speakers.

He told himself again, I’m investing in God’s work.

One afternoon, his old friend Samuel visited. Samuel had studied theology with him years before but now worked quietly as a teacher. “Brother,” Samuel said kindly, “your ministry has grown fast. But be careful. Don’t let money change your message.”

Johnson laughed. “You don’t understand the modern church. People won’t come unless you give them hope of prosperity.”

Samuel quoted softly, Mark 8 : 36 – For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?

The words stung. Johnson changed the subject.

Days turned into months, and the pressure for more income grew. The new building demanded maintenance, the staff wanted salaries, and he liked the lifestyle he now tasted—fine restaurants, imported suits, attention. When offerings dipped, he began to invent testimonies.

One Sunday he announced, “A woman here gave her last coin last week—and today she’s received a house from heaven!” The crowd roared. He saw tears in their eyes, faith renewed, and inside he whispered, Forgive me, Lord, it’s for their faith.

But the lie birthed another. Soon he claimed to see visions—who in the crowd was about to be blessed, who must sow a “special seed.” People came running, waving envelopes.

The accountant, Sister Miriam, noticed irregularities. She approached him timidly. “Pastor, some records don’t match. Offerings disappear before deposit.”

Johnson’s smile hardened. “Focus on prayer, not numbers, Sister. The Lord sees all.”

That night he sat alone in his office, lights off, staring at the ceiling fan spinning above him. When did I change? he asked himself. The silence answered.

Then his phone buzzed—a message from a wealthy businessman: I hear your ministry brings favor. Let’s meet. Perhaps we can help each other.

Johnson read it twice, felt a thrill he couldn’t name.

He told himself opportunity was knocking. He didn’t see that the door was opening to something else entirely.

(Installment 2 continues immediately below…)

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Part 1 – Installment 2 of 3

The businessman’s name was Mr. Okechukwu. His handshake was firm, his smile too wide. They met in a hotel lounge scented with cigars and ambition.

“I admire men of vision,” Okechukwu said. “But vision needs capital. I can multiply your ministry’s funds, legally of course.”

Johnson leaned forward. “How?”

“Simple investments. Your members trust you. You introduce them to a divine opportunity. We share the profit.”

Johnson hesitated. “I preach, not sell schemes.”

The man laughed. “You preach prosperity. This is prosperity in action.”

That night, Johnson dreamt of envelopes stacked like bricks, of people shouting his name. When he woke, he sent a message: I’m interested.

Months later, Fire of Glory Ministries launched “Kingdom Investment.” Johnson preached that God had shown him a financial revelation. “Whoever sows into this project will reap a hundredfold in thirty days!” he declared. Verses from Malachi and Proverbs thundered through the loudspeakers.

Money poured in—small traders, widows, students, even his own ushers.

For a while, returns came; Okechukwu made sure of it. The congregation hailed Pastor Johnson as a prophet of wealth. His name appeared in local magazines. He bought a mansion at the city’s edge, claiming donors had blessed him.

But soon the illusion cracked. Okechukwu disappeared, accounts frozen. Angry members stormed the church. “You deceived us!” they shouted.

Johnson faced them, sweat trickling beneath his collar. “Brethren, this is a test of faith. The devil fights blessings!”

He quoted Job 1 : 21 – The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

Some believed, most didn’t. Attendance plummeted.

He locked himself in his mansion, curtains drawn. Bills piled, staff left. The same members who once called him “Papa” now spat at his name.

Pride kept him from repentance. Instead, he blamed others—Okechukwu, the devil, even God. He still preached every Sunday to a shrinking crowd, insisting miracles were coming.

One evening, he visited a dying elder, Deacon Paul, who had once warned him about greed. The old man’s eyes were dim but his voice steady. “Johnson, you built your altar on lies. Tear it down before it buries you.”

Johnson turned away. “God still uses me.”

Paul sighed. Proverbs 16 : 18 – Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

Three months later, a rumour spread that Johnson sought power from “men of influence.” Few knew what that meant. Fewer wanted to ask.

He met them in secret—men who promised to restore his wealth and followers, men whose laughter chilled the air. They asked for silence, for loyalty, for certain oaths.

He hesitated only once. Then pride whispered, Better

After that night, Johnson returned to the pulpit changed. His sermons grew darker, filled with threats against anyone who questioned him. He spoke of “spiritual enemies” and “divine authority.” Fear replaced faith in the church.

He built a private office behind the altar where only chosen aides could enter. Sometimes muffled chants echoed from within. When people asked, he said he was “wrestling in the spirit.”

Money flowed again, mysteriously. Cars, gifts, foreign trips. But peace fled from his home. His wife began to avoid him, praying silently when she thought he couldn’t hear. “Johnson,” she whispered one night, “what have you done?”

He snapped, “I’m doing what must be done to keep this ministry alive!”

She opened her Bible to Psalm 127: 1 – Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that build it. He slammed it shut.

Dreams tormented him—faces of those he deceived, voices chanting accusations. In the mirror, he sometimes thought he saw someone else staring back. Yet on Sundays he still wore his brilliant smile, shouted hallelujahs, and collected offerings.

Outside, storms gathered. Investigations reopened about the lost investment funds. His allies withdrew. Reporters camped at the church gate.

The final Sunday of that year, the crowd was thin. He preached furiously about betrayal, sweat drenching his fine suit. Suddenly his voice broke; words tangled. He clutched his chest, staggered, and fell beside the pulpit he had once ruled.

As people screamed, Sister Miriam knelt beside him, whispering through tears, “Pastor, repent, call on Jesus.”

His lips moved faintly. “All… mine…”

Then stillness.

They said the sky thundered that evening without rain.

Later, Samuel attended the burial. No crowd, no banners, only a few faithful who still prayed for his soul. He looked at the simple gravestone and murmured, Galatians 6: 7 – Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

The wind carried the words over the weeds that had begun to grow around the name Pastor Johnson – Fire of Glory Ministries.

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End of Part 1 – The Making of a False Shepherd