Every so often, a new “spiritual assignment” lands in the inboxes of church volunteers and facilitators—fast for three days, pray for the participants, gather early for devotion, attend midweek meetings. No one asks questions. No one dares to. The instruction comes from above, and questioning it is treated as rebellion.
I’ve come to realize how easily blind faith is disguised as obedience. When leaders say “we” should fast, it rarely includes them. They delegate sacrifice to the people below them—the unpaid, overworked volunteers—while quoting verses about serving “unto God and not unto man.” That line has been used for centuries to make people give their time, money, and energy without ever expecting appreciation or fairness in return.
Back when I was deep in it, I never saw the manipulation. It all felt noble—serving God, sacrificing for others. But once you step out and look at it from a distance, it’s impossible not to see how much control and guilt are woven into these systems. You’re told that obedience brings blessings, and disobedience brings curses. So you fast, you pray, you lose sleep, you give everything—because to say no is to be branded as unfaithful.
And it’s not just isolated to one place. Around this time of year—December into January—the same pattern unfolds across so many churches. It’s almost predictable. The “season of prayer and fasting” gets announced just as the year ends or begins, right when people are most vulnerable. December carries guilt for how we’ve lived the year, and January brings financial strain. Pastors call it “seeking the face of God,” but it often feels more like exploiting fear and scarcity.
We’ve even seen how extreme it can get. From the Nigerian pastor whose spotless image masked years of horrific abuse, to the tragic stories from Kenyan churches where followers died in forests during “fasting retreats.” In one shocking case, people were even told to sell everything, give the money to the church, then jump from trees believing they’d ascend to heaven. These are not outliers—they’re symptoms of the same sickness: leaders who teach obedience without accountability and congregations trained to follow without question.
Even the “nice” churches aren’t free from it. The ones that hug you at the door and call you family. The ones that make you feel seen—until you start thinking for yourself. The moment you question leadership, they quietly cut you off. Suddenly, you’re “backsliding,” “rebellious,” or “lost.” But what they really mean is—you’re no longer controllable.
Churches thrive on human longing. They build community around pain—loneliness, guilt, trauma—and then call it love. But once your eyes open, you realize that love built on control isn’t love at all. It’s dependency dressed in holiness.
So as another December rolls in, the fasts and crusades will begin again. People will climb mountains, skip meals, and chase blessings. Leaders will stand on pulpits and talk about sacrifice. But I can’t help but wonder—how many of them are fasting too? How many are praying with the same hunger they demand from their followers?
For me, I’ve chosen a different kind of devotion. One where I no longer starve to prove faith. One where I question. Where I sit with my daughter, share a meal, and feel fully present. Because I’ve learned that obedience without thought is not holiness—it’s surrender of self. And once you start to see, you can never go back to being blind again.