A young woman lies on her deathbed in Lagos, her breath shallow, her voice frail, whispering into a voice note that will never leave the mind of the one who once loved her: “I wish I listened to you and my father. I wish I lived like a pastor’s daughter. I chased the wrong cloud… and now it’s too late.” Her body weakened not by HIV/AIDS but the stigma of living with such diseases, her soul burdened by regrets, she became another painful statistic in the growing list of fallen pastor’s children—those born in the fire but raised without flame.
This girl had once mocked the idea of marrying a devout Pastor, dismissing a proposal with the words, “God forbid. Marrying a Pastor? That’s the last thing I’ll do.” Seven years later, after a failed relationship with a man who flew in from Europe and dumped her for being “too cheap,” her story became a warning, a lamentation, and a mirror to the spiritual crisis shaking the church to its core.
Across Nigeria and beyond, sacred households are birthing secular souls. From the pew to the pulpit, and back home to broken bedrooms, many pastors’ children—who wear white on Sunday—now wear darkness as a lifestyle. The tragedy is no longer a rumour. It is a reality. The worst pastors’ children are no longer the openly rebellious ones, but those who act holy during service and turn into wolves at night. They raise their hands during praise and raise hell when the lights go out. These are not mere backsliders; they are spiritual impostors.
Matthew 23:28 foretold it: “Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.” Hypocrisy is no longer in the streets—it now sings in our choirs, leads youth groups, and heads media departments in churches. These children, raised in prophecy and fasting, have learned the art of duplicity. They know when to cry during worship, but they also know where the party is after the benediction.
Even some pastors now tremble at their own pulpits. They can no longer preach holiness with boldness because their homes reek of contradictions. A true story from a Nigerian state proves this painfully: a pastor whose house is only three plots from his church is raising daughters known in the community as “hookup queens” and a son famous for Yahoo-Yahoo. Only one child among them is saved. The man who once thundered about purity now dodges scriptures like 1 Timothy 3:5: “For if a man know not how to rule his own house, how shall he take care of the church of God?”
There are also single mothers—supposedly spiritual pillars—who parade chastity by day and sneak men into their homes by night, believing their children are asleep. But children may be silent, yet they are not blind. They see the shifting shadows, they hear the late-night laughter, and slowly their trust in God and moral order dies. Ecclesiastes 10:1 warns, “Dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour.” One night of careless compromise can drown years of public respect.
Bro. Gbile Akanni echoes this agony with piercing truth: “Whatever doesn’t work at home is fake. Don’t export what has failed in your family. The first revival you need is at your dining table.” But who listens? We chase ministry platforms while our living rooms burn. We pour oil on strangers while our sons sip alcohol in secret. We raise voices in sermons and forget to lower them in gentleness at home.
The African elder has always known: “The child who is not taught at home will bring shame in the marketplace.” The marketplace today is Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok. And shame? It trends faster than revival. Pastors now host conferences while dodging gossip about their children. Holiness is now mocked—not by outsiders—but by the very sons and daughters of the gospel.
Bro. Gbile Akanni posed another question that stings the conscience: “It is a terrible thing for a man to be mightily used of God but has no home, no marriage, no children to show for it. What will you present before God?”
What indeed?
The Igbo proverb says, “The lizard that ruined its mother’s funeral was not an orphan.” Pastors’ children didn’t fall alone. They fell while we cheered their performances and ignored their pain. We expected angels from children who only ever saw religion and never truly met Jesus.
About seven years ago, I met one such child. Her father, a powerful pastor, was busy saving the nation. She was lost in fame, clothes, clicks, and clubbing. When life failed her, she returned broken, but it was too late. “I wish I listened…” she said. Her words echo louder than sermons now.
The Akan say, “When the drumbeat changes, the dance must change too.” Today’s children face battles we never imagined. Our parenting must grow. We must stop leading from the altar alone and return to the kitchen table. A child raised on fear will perform. A child raised on grace will believe.
Let pastors become fathers again. Let mothers be models of holiness, not actresses of deceit. Let children breathe in homes where Jesus lives—not just where He is quoted. Let the church stop celebrating appearances and start nurturing authenticity.
Let churches stop demanding perfection from pastors’ children. They are not messiahs. They are not prototypes of heaven. They are just children—hungry for attention, broken by expectations, and crushed by hypocrisy.
The African proverb says, “If a child washes his hands, he will dine with elders.” But first, let him be taught to find the soap, the water, and the value of cleanliness. We must teach our children—not with shouts—but with stories, time, touch, and truth.
Only then will sacred roots bear sacred fruits again. Only then will our daughters be like polished cornerstones, and our sons like olive shoots around our tables. Only then will we say as Joshua did: “As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” Not with masks, but with hearts. Not in drama, but in truth. Not in fear of shame, but in the joy of salvation.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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