By Praise Fowowe
I grew up under the shadow of a cassock.
My father — Ven. Jacob Owolabi Fowowe — was not just a priest. He was a man on a mission. An Anglican clergyman who feared nothing but God. I watched him walk into battlefields without guns, only faith.
I remember clearly the day a whole town turned against him — because he dared to tear down a pagan altar defiantly erected in front of St. Paul’s Primary School in Odogbolu. I still remember the song they sang for him
But he didn’t stop there.
He walked into the dens of cultists and after their conversion made them choir members after their discipleship.
He didn’t care where you were coming from — he only cared about where Christ could take you. He created space for young people — flawed, fiery, searching — and gave them permission to grow.
I saw him handle their excesses, even when they were rude, raw, and rebellious.
He once told us, “I am called to serve them, and no question should be too big for me to answer.”
That was my father.
And though he was strong, he was never too big to say, “I was wrong.”
I watched him — a man of the cloth — apologize when he missed it. He didn’t pretend to be the fourth member of the Trinity. He was human, and he owned it. As his children, we didn’t demand perfection. But his humility made us listen harder when he spoke. My dad was very argumentative when we took him on but you could tell he was considering what you told him. When i stopped attending his church and moved to a pentecostal church he didn’t see it as failure and didn’t threaten he only said ‘You will soon discover that there can’t be perfection wherever human beings lead'( i didn’t agree then but looking back J.O was spot on as usual)
Later in life, I was privileged to sit under another giant — Pastor Sam Adeyemi. And just like my father, he was accessible, thoughtful, and secure enough to be questioned. There were no invisible fences around his pulpit. If something was unclear, you could ask — and not be made to feel like Judas for being inquisitive.
But now… something has changed.
We’re in a time where to question a leader is to invite death threats. Where asking for clarity is considered disloyalty. Where you are branded an enemy for lovingly pointing out what may be damaging the flock. It’s almost as if we have forgotten that shepherds too must be led. That even the priest needs a mirror.
A strange silence now fills the room — not the holy kind, but the oppressive kind. People nod in agreement with doctrines that pierce the soul and twist the truth — not because they agree, but because they fear becoming the next victim of the pulpit’s wrath.
How did we get here?
When did spiritual fathers stop learning from the children they raised? When did correcting error become an act of rebellion? When did the body of Christ turn into a kingdom of intimidation?
I do not claim to have all the answers, but I know this:
🕊️ Mortal men make mistakes. And it is holy to say, I am sorry.
🕊️ True followers do not plot the fall of their leaders — they pray, they ask, they guide.
🕊️ Real power is not in the fear you inspire, but the love you cultivate.
🕊️ The evidence of ministry is not just material abundance, but the weight of character and the fragrance of humility.
If our only proof of calling is the number of cars in the lot or jets in the sky, then perhaps we should all bow to Elon Musk and Bill Gates. But I was taught something different. I was taught that the weight of a man is measured by his capacity to bend low — not just before God, but before those he leads.
To those who threaten us for speaking up — our prayer remains:
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.”
This is not rebellion.
This is a plea for a revival — not of power, but of humility.
Because the Church is not a throne room for perfect men — it is a hospital for the broken, leaders and followers alike. I am one of those broken men still trusting God for my imperfection.
May we all find the courage to be corrected.
And the grace to say, “I was wrong.”
Amen.
PF
