When the Gospel’s thunder became a whisper in our streets, and ministers began exchanging the altar of outreach for the armchair of administration, eternity itself trembled. Once, preachers stood at junctions like Jeremiah—fire in their bones, tears in their eyes. Today, they are dismissed as public nuisances by the very cities they once won for Christ.
Governor Charles Soludo of Anambra didn’t merely sign a secular policy. He unintentionally ripped a page out of the Book of Acts, where apostles were flogged for speaking the Name. Soludo’s decree was not a simple civic adjustment; it was a spiritual indictment. Like Pontius Pilate, he washed his hands off the Gospel’s public voice. In Onitsha’s markets, once echoing with “Jesus saves,” a strange hush now lingers. O what tragedy when the trumpet of Zion is mistaken for noise, and Caesar wields the gavel against the Great Commission!
Yet let us not scapegoat one man. Soludo’s law is the legal stamp of our spiritual laziness. This generation, baptized in bandwidth and soaked in selfies, has forgotten the sacred chaos of open-air evangelism. We’ve replaced altars with algorithms. Men carry digital Bibles but lack holy burden. Women speak in tongues on livestreams but have no travail in their spirits. Instead, yahoo plus or blood money rituals is increasing daily.
What transition have we tolerated? Pastors now court politicians like Herod once entertained magicians. Street altars have become conference halls. We once carried crosses—now we carry brands. We have made a spectacle of the sacred. Evangelism has been swallowed by event management. Instead of birthing revivals, we now chase viral trends.
And those who still dare—those strange prophets with dirty clothes and unkept hairs shouting Jesus beneath flyovers—are labeled unstable. But in heaven’s courtroom, it is not they who are mad. It is we, the sanitized, the sophisticated, the spiritually sedated, who have lost our salt.
What sermon can satisfy a stomach that groans louder than a spirit? What theology will a widow hear when her children dine on tears? The Gospel is not perfume for posh pulpits. It is fire—it is blood—it is the salty sweat of a weeping evangelist crying beside a gutter. It is a teenage girl preaching Christ in the rain while her peers scroll through TikTok.
This raw Gospel is the legacy of men like Apostle Joseph Ayo Babalola, who didn’t need fancy sound systems to declare, “Thus saith the Lord!” They carried the burden of souls, not likes. They preached with urgency, not vanity. They walked the dusty roads and shouted salvation, not slogans.
But now, our altars compete with Instagram algorithms. Our pulpits have become platforms for performance. As Apostle Joshua Selman warned, “When the pulpit becomes a performance stage, the Church becomes a comedy show.” Today, we may be preaching—but are we reaching? We may have visibility—but do we still carry responsibility?
Street evangelism is not outdated. It is under attack. And while digital evangelism is a tool, it is not a substitute for physical witness. The apostles wrote epistles—but they also shed blood. For every tweet, there must be a tear. For every post, a pulpit.
Let’s not bury our mandate beneath the rubble of relevance. Let us reimagine street evangelism. Turn tricycles into traveling sanctuaries. Use drama, skits, mobile speakers, and even food drives—not to entertain, but to evangelize. Let it still be Jesus we preach—not motivational fluff wrapped in scripture.
If you think the streets are too hostile, remember this: Christ carried His cross on the streets—naked, bleeding, spat upon—not on a stage, but through the dust of Jerusalem. Shall the servant be greater than the Master?
Oh, for the preacher on Third Mainland Bridge—arise again! For the girl with a megaphone on a keke—weep again! For the barefoot boys with tongues of fire—enter campuses again! Let the elders who tarried at 5 a.m. teach us to burn again.
And you—yes, you reading this—if you once burned for Jesus but now chase clicks instead of the cross, this is your wake-up call. You were not saved to spectate. You were bought with blood to burn.
If mockery, heartbreak, or hunger silenced your evangelism, let this moment be your upper room. Let the fire fall again.
And if you’ve never known this Jesus—the Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief, crucified between thieves, yet risen in glory—then hear this: He is not myth. Not trend. Not hashtag. He is the Son of the Living God.
If you will bow now, He will raise you. If you confess, He will cleanse. If you call, He will answer.
Pray this sincerely:
“Lord Jesus, I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of running. I need You. Wash me. Save me. Set me on fire again. Make my life count for Your glory. I surrender all. Use me. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
If you prayed this prayer, congratulations. Please find a living church nearby. If you’re in Kogi, try Latter Glory Kingdom Assemblies, Idah, Kogi State. And may your journey with Christ begin anew.
Street evangelism is not irrelevant. It is urgent. The only question is: Will you return to the street, or remain seated while eternity bleeds?
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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