In Rwanda, churches are woven into the fabric of daily life: some educate children, care for the sick, shape moral values, and influence politics. Yet a question recently stirred public attention: why do some churches remain closed even after meeting official reopening requirements? At a press conference, President Paul Kagame did not mince words.
"If it were up to me, I would not open any of them,” he said. "In the midst of wars and national struggles, what are these churches really contributing?”
He went further, criticising those that exploit their congregations.
"Many are bandits; they cheat the people. Go farm, and pray online if you must.”
The President's statement may be his personal opinion, but it underscores a broader question about accountability and purpose in our churches.
His words were pointed, potentially even unsettling to some, but they reflected a truth many Africans, silently recognise: while some churches have genuinely contributed meaningfully to the development of their respective countries, others enrich their leaders while leaving followers behind. Faith, in these cases, becomes less a moral compass and more an economic enterprise cloaked in reverence.
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Rwanda’s religious history is multifaceted. Some institutions, notably the Catholic Church, have played a lasting and tangible role in national development. Recently, it celebrated 125 years in Rwanda, highlighting a network of more than 1,700 primary schools, over 1,000 secondary schools, six universities, dozens of health centres and hospitals, and hundreds of early childhood development centres.
Other denominations have provided stability in times of hardship, offering education, healthcare, food assistance, counseling, and a sense of belonging contributing to the governments’ unmet needs. These contributions show what faith can become when belief is paired with responsibility.
Yet for these institutions, particularly in Rwanda, there is a darker side. During the 1994 genocide against the Tutsi, some religious leaders were complicit in the massacres of the Tutsi or failed to protect innocent people seeking refuge in their worship spaces. That history lingers in Rwanda’s memory and continues to shape how citizens question moral authority today.
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And in more recent years, a subtler but no less concerning pattern has emerged across the African continent. Some who once operated as traditional healers or ritualists, but could no longer earn a livelihood in those roles, have rebranded themselves as religious leaders. Knowing that modern prayer shrines command greater public trust than traditional shrines, they present themselves as spiritual reformers. The language changes. The symbols change. The setting changes. But the pattern of manipulation often remains.
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Through fear, promises of divine favour, miracles or claims of special spiritual power, they exploit the goodwill and vulnerability of their followers under a new, socially acceptable identity.
Wealth flows to the few at the top, while the faithful provide loyalty, resources, and unquestioning devotion. In many parts of our societies, such disguised forms of exploitation have led to harm, hidden under the broad and trusted banner of faith.
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This is not a critique of religions itself. For millions, religion offers meaning, discipline, hope, and community.
It comforts the grieving, guides the uncertain, and unites isolated individuals. The problem arises when spirituality is treated as a profit business rather than a noble calling. When congregants struggle to pay school fees while religious leaders build mansions and drive luxury cars, the contradiction is impossible to ignore.
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President Kagame’s open disapproval raises a vital question for Rwanda and beyond: what should the role of religious institutions be in a modern state?
Is it enough to pray while unemployment rises, while young people seek opportunity, and while communities struggle with health and education gaps? Or must faith institutions, like any influential social actor, be held accountable for the material realities of the people they serve?
Religious leaders wield extraordinary influence throughout Africa. Their followers give generously, not just money, but trust, loyalty, and time. Yet oversight is often weak, and financial transparency is rare. For many believers, questioning a spiritual leader can feel like questioning God himself. Rwanda’s approach offers a different path. It does not reject faith; it demands proof of value. Religious institutions seeking to operate openly should demonstrate tangible contributions to the public good, through schools, health programmes, economic opportunities, protection of vulnerable children, or transparent ethical practices.
A few of these live up to these ideals. Majority fall far short, serving selfish ends while cloaked in faith, enriching leaders at the expense of those they are meant to guide. These failures remind us that reverence alone cannot substitute for responsibility.
If religious institutions are to answer President Kagame’s challenge, the path forward is clear.
They must transform faith into tangible impact. They should publicly report on programmes that improve people’s lives, showing exactly how offerings are translated into societal benefits. Leaders might establish independent committees to oversee financial transparency and ethical compliance, ensuring that reverence is matched with accountability.
Most importantly, the moral authority of a religious institution should be inseparable from its social responsibility. Congregants should see their contributions, time, money, and trust, manifest in lives lifted and communities transformed.
Faith that benefits only the few at the top while leaving the majority in hardship cannot be justified by its religious guise; true faith uplifts rather than keeps people perpetually on their knees.
The value of religion should not be measured in the size of its congregation or the loudness of its sermons. Its true measure should be in the lives it touches, the dignity it restores, and the doors it opens for people. Rwanda’s firm stance should remind us that spiritual leaders are accountable not just to God but to the communities they serve. When they rise to that responsibility, they are vital. When they fall short, even the deepest reverence can’t make up for it.
The writer is a management consultant and strategist.