When God Turned a Venue Crisis into a Harvest

For months, it felt like we were a fellowship without a home.

At the University of Benin, venue after venue closed its doors against us. Just when we thought we had settled, another notice would come. Another misunderstanding. Another “you can’t use this place.” It was frustrating, exhausting—and honestly, humbling.

One particular season stands out clearly in my memory.

We were using a basement hall—East Wing, if I remember correctly. The place wasn’t fancy, but it worked. Then one evening, another fellowship showed up. Their name was House on the Mansion. They came in confidently and began setting up their instruments as if the hall belonged to them.

We approached them calmly. We suggested sharing the hall. After all, we were brethren. Same faith. Same Christ.

They refused.

They claimed that CU, the former users of the hall, had given them the right to use it. We, on the other hand, had followed due process and obtained permission from the necessary authorities—including CU. We had documents. They had none—only a claimed verbal agreement.

That first week was awkward… and painful.

They set up their instruments.

We set up ours too.

Two fellowships.

One hall.

Competing speakers.

Competing sounds.

Our people were more.

Our speakers were louder.

It was not a proud moment for the Body of Christ.

Their pastor—Pastor K—accused us of oppression. He said we were using our size and strength to intimidate them. The tension grew, and we knew something had to change.

So the following week, we chose peace.

We moved our instruments outside.

That evening, I was asked to preach.

We gathered in the open air, unsure of how the service would go. The night breeze moved through the trees, students passed by, some curious, some indifferent. And I stood there with a message that had been burning in my spirit.

I titled it: “Sitting on the Green Grass.”

I read from the passage where Jesus, in the wilderness, told His disciples to make the people sit on green grass before feeding the five thousand.

I emphasized the contrast.

Green grass…

In a wilderness.

Provision…

In a dry place.

I told the fellowship that God was about to make green provision for us in a dry land—that what looked like displacement was actually divine positioning.

None of us knew how prophetic those words were.

Shortly after that service, we began using the outer court of the June 12 Building—just temporarily, or so we thought. We didn’t realize God was setting us up.

That space sat right between Hall 2, Hall 3, and Hall 4—three of the most notorious hostels on campus. It was also a major passageway for students heading to faculties and those going out at night to read.

And suddenly, something began to happen.

Students leaned out of hostel windows to watch.

Others stopped on their way to read… and stayed.

Some joined for five minutes… and never left again.

Our “temporary” venue became a magnet.

In a matter of weeks, the fellowship exploded—from just over a hundred members to over six hundred. Worship became electric. The Word spread fast. Testimonies multiplied. Just like Jesus, the fame of Winners Campus Fellowship began to spread across the entire school.

What was meant to frustrate us became our access point.

What looked like rejection became visibility.

What felt like loss became multiplication.

We watched it happen in real time—and our faith grew with every service.

Truly, God was faithful.

And once again, we learned this unshakable truth:

When God is involved, what is meant to scatter you will gather many to you.

To Him alone be all the glory.