Religion could be a force for good, fostering community, justice, and moral accountability. Yet, in practice, it has too often served as a tool for manipulation—binding people not in spiritual unity but in psychological and economic chains. As believers and skeptics alike, we must interrogate the true purpose of organized religion: Is it about faith—or fetters?
For as long as I can remember, I have grappled with the paradox that lies at the heart of organized religion—its capacity to uplift and unify, juxtaposed with the fractures and conflicts it has perpetuated throughout history. While faith has undeniably served as a cornerstone of human civilization, inspiring charitable acts, fostering solidarity, and offering solace to the weary, it has also been a vehicle for control, oppression, sectarianism, and violence. Organized religion, far from being an unalloyed force for good, has too often resisted progress, stifled inquiry, and justified social hierarchies that marginalize the very people it purports to serve.
Recently, I engaged in a stimulating conversation with a colleague who identifies as both an evangelical Christian and a dedicated member of the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC). Brian proudly shared stories of the charity work his church and affiliated groups have undertaken in Africa. SBC Organizations like “Baptists on Mission” collaborate with the “Door of Hope” to create villages for abandoned children in South Africa. Others, such as the Arizona Mission Network, sponsor mission trips to Kenya to build homes, teach the Bible, and plant churches.
Brian’s enthusiasm was heartfelt, and I acknowledged the tangible good those charitable initiatives can yield. However, beneath the altruistic surface of these religious endeavors lies a history riddled with contradictions and moral failures that betray the very principles Christianity espouses. These charitable acts often serve as a salve for deeper institutional transgressions, concealing a legacy that is difficult to reconcile with the ideals of faith and compassion.
The Southern Baptist Convention (SBC), like many religious institutions, has been enmeshed in some of history’s most egregious injustices. Its complicity extends beyond philanthropy to alliances that reflect a troubling pursuit of power. The union between Christian nationalists and Donald Trump today, for example, represents a dangerous confluence of faith and politics which has posed an existential threat to America’s once famed democracy—one far removed from divine principles.
I reminded Brian that his congregation belongs to a legacy shaped by a Faustian pact with Trump, similar to the temptation Satan offered Jesus after forty days of fasting: “All these kingdoms I will give you, if you bow down and worship me.” The origins of the SBC itself are steeped not merely in spiritual conviction but in the defense of slavery—an uncomfortable truth that underscores the intersection of faith, power, and historical complicity.
Before the 1840s, Baptists in the U.S. were united under a loose coalition called the Triennial Convention. However, a split eventually led to the creation of two distinct groups: the Baptists and the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC). The division occurred in 1845 over the issue of slavery and missionary eligibility. Northern Baptists opposed slavery and refused to appoint slaveholders as missionaries, while Southern Baptists, many of whom were slave owners, argued that slavery was not sinful and believed slaveholding missionaries should be allowed to serve. The conflict came to a head in 1844 when the Home Mission Society denied James E. Reeve, a slaveholder from Georgia, a missionary position, prompting southern leaders to break away and establish the SBC.
The legacy of this schism goes beyond theology. Even after slavery was abolished, many southern evangelicals supported segregation through the Jim Crow laws, ensuring Black in Americans remained oppressed and excluded from the social fabric. Christian nationalists justified these laws with religious rhetoric, and the fight to dismantle them required the courage of the Civil Rights Movement. Today, the SBC remains predominantly white, while African Americans largely affiliate with other Baptist groups—a reminder of how race and faith have diverged sharply within Christianity in the United States.
It’s equally important to note that several leaders within the Ku Klux Klan (KKK) have identified as evangelical Christians. They do not see people of other races as equals or as fellow children of God. Ironically, these same people came to Africa and sold us religion under the guise of charity, framing their work as altruistic.
Throughout history, organized religion has proven to be a powerful instrument of control. Early Christian missionaries in Africa, for example, sold religion under the guise of charity but it was simply another form of control, masked with good deeds. Even Al Capone—a notorious gangster—engaged in charity work, which did not make him any less of a criminal. Their true mission was to make Africans more compliant to colonial powers, easing the way for land grabbing and resource exploitation. By controlling minds, they paved the way for the physical conquest of entire nations.
The hypocrisy of organized religion isn’t exclusive to Christianity. We see similar patterns in other faiths. In Saudi Arabia for example, a nation that presents itself as the global guardian of Islamic values simultaneously engages in practices that starkly contradict those principles. The country enforces strict religious laws—public beheadings, floggings, and restrictions on women—claiming to uphold Sharia law. At the same time, many of its elites engage in behaviors that violate the same religious doctrines they impose on others.
Wealthy Saudis are known for indulging in extravagant lifestyles abroad, frequenting casinos, nightclubs, and resorts where alcohol and other activities forbidden under Islamic law are readily available. This glaring disparity between proclaimed piety and realpolitik suggests that religion in Saudi Arabia functions less as a moral compass and more as a tool for social control and political legitimacy.
Osama bin Laden, a figure with huge following who preached religious purity and jihad, was allegedly discovered to possess a stash of pornography when U.S. forces killed him—an ironic display of the disconnect between public piety and private indulgence. Hypocrisy, it seems, often accompanies those who weaponize religion. The same can be said for Christian evangelicals in America’s Bible Belt, who use scripture to defend racial hierarchies, champion Trump’s white nationalist agenda, and oppose progressive movements for racial and social justice.
Today, the trend continues with prosperity gospel preachers, especially in Africa and some parts of the U.S. These pastors promise wealth and success to struggling followers in exchange for donations, creating a transactional faith based on false hope. While these “men of God” live in unconscionable luxury—driving exotic cars and residing in gilded mansions—their congregants often live in poverty. Religion, in this sense, becomes a business model where spiritual promises are sold for material gain, leaving many followers exploited and disillusioned.
Despite its claims to offer spiritual salvation, organized religion often prioritizes power, wealth, and control. The charity it offers, while beneficial on the surface, frequently serves as a mask for deeper agendas. Across cultures and centuries, religion has consistently been wielded by those in power to maintain control over minds and societies.
There is a growing reason why many young people today are turning away from organized religion. Increasingly, they are disillusioned by instances of hypocrisy within religious institutions, where leaders preach values they fail to uphold. Scandals, such as financial misconduct or sexual abuse, have severely eroded trust in these institutions, making young people skeptical of the moral authority they claim to possess. The gap between the preached ideals and practiced behaviors fuels a sense of betrayal, pushing many to question their involvement.
Moreover, with greater access to education and scientific knowledge, young individuals often challenge religious doctrines that appear to conflict with scientific evidence. As they explore philosophical and empirical explanations for life’s complexities, organized religion may seem less relevant or compelling to their understanding of the world.
This shift aligns with broader cultural trends toward individualism, where personal experiences, spirituality, and activism are prioritized over the authority of established religious systems. The most compelling argument against organized religion lies in its historical and ongoing tendency to prioritize institutional power and control over genuine spiritual development.
Religion could be a force for good, fostering community, justice, and moral accountability. Yet, in practice, it has too often served as a tool for manipulation—binding people not in spiritual unity but in psychological and economic chains. As believers and skeptics alike, we must interrogate the true purpose of organized religion: Is it about faith—or fetters?
Every Sunday, as I stand before the Holy Eucharist, these thoughts weigh heavily on my mind.
Osmund Agbo is a US-based medical doctor and author. His works include, Black Grit, White Knuckles: The Philosophy of Black Renaissance and a fiction work titled The Velvet Court: Courtesan Chronicles. His latest works, Pray, Let the Shaman Die and Ma’am, I Do Not Come to You for Love, have just been released.
