The sound of church organs pulses through drowsy streets, puncturing the Sunday quiet for the first time in five months. Worshippers stream into the near century-old courtyard of Lagos’s Catholic Holy Cross Cathedral and find a somewhat unfamiliar place.

Sink units with motion-sensitive soap dispensers line the entrance through the gates. Security guards point temperature sensors at foreheads. At the church steps, contact details are taken by staff in exchange for a pass to enter. Inside the building, stickers mark the two designated seats on each pew, while ushers patrol the aisles, gesturing reproachfully for masks lowered under chins to be promptly raised.

The cathedral in Nigeria’s most populous city is open to half of its usual capacity of 2,500 worshippers, under strict government guidelines, for the first time since March when lockdown measures to stop the spread of coronavirus banned religious gatherings.

“In this period we can’t do things the way we want to,” says the archbishop of the Catholic church in Lagos, Alfred Martins, as he addresses the faithful from his pulpit draped in gold fabric. “We must do them the way we have to.”

Glimmering gele head-ties wrapped like giant rose petals dot the cathedral hall. Many dressed in Sunday best wave at fellow parishioners, stealing embraces over pews and gently dancing through hymns. At every stage of the mass, physical distancing is enforced by vigilant ushers. After the service, no meetings or groups are allowed. Worshippers are guided out through exits, which lead away from the open courtyard and directly into the street. For many the service provokes an odd mixture of relief and loss.

Thompson Babatunde, 35, was born into Holy Cross, situated in Lagos Island – and home to lots of established, tightly knit working-class communities. “There’s really nothing like being present physically,” he says. “But today I noticed it when we didn’t offer each other the ‘sign of peace’. There is no hugging, no holding, these things are important connections. For me, something was missing.”

The impact of the closure and subsequent new regulations for places of worship has been deeply felt at Holy Cross and across Nigeria, a devoutly religious nation. On Friday mosques reopened across the country, where the vast majority of the population is evenly split between followers of Christianity and Islam.

In 2014, widespread fear that the deadly Ebola outbreak could spread in Lagos led to swift changes to religious practices, yet not to this extent, Babatunde says. “With this virus, unlike Ebola, it’s even in the air. It’s very easy to spread so it has caused more disruption.”

After morning mass, Father Raymond Emedo greets departing parishioners. The scale of loneliness in Lagos, particularly for older people, makes places that foster community vital. “Most of them have kids who have left Nigeria or live further away in Lagos,” he says. “An elderly woman will walk all the way to church just to tell me she’s having a headache and I will think, ‘You should have rested’. The next week she’ll come back and say ‘Thank you, after I got home I ate and I slept and felt better’. Really it was the connection that was important.”

Among both traditional institutions and the powerful pentecostal megachurches that dominate Christian life in Nigeria, the ban has universally been a burden, but has also divided reactions.

From some, it has meant a greater willingness to adapt and offer aid. For others, a hostility towards lockdown measures has led to dangerous conspiracy theories.

Bishop David Oyedepo, the founder of Living Faith Tabernacle which draws 50,000 people, has been among the most ardent critics of the lockdown. “There is something wrong; for people to be allowed to be in the market for six hours and can’t be in church for two hours,” he says, pointing out that shopping areas and hospitals were allowed to open.

Pastor Chris Oyakhilome, the founder of Christ Embassy, which seats 30,000 at its main branch in Lagos, has also been heavily critical. “The lockdown is not science,” he said in a sermon. In June, the UK broadcasting regulator, Ofcom, sanctioned his LoveWorld TV channel for furthering the conspiracy that 5G networks were the cause of the pandemic.

More generally, the vast, ostentatious wealth of megachurches and their multimillionaire pastors has fuelled criticism during the lockdown that the financial hit of the closure was a more pressing consideration than offering support to those in need.

Other large churches such as the Citadel church and Elevation church have been more vocal in offering support to the government and affected people.

The pandemic was a challenge for the church in Nigeria to reassess its obligations to society, Martins says. More than 400 of the Catholic church’s health centres have been offered to the government to support its outbreak response. “We’ve had to reflect on what pastoral care looks like during a pandemic,” he adds. Visitation to vulnerable or sick people had become complicated by the pandemic.

“We’ve quickly transitioned to online, and began airing live services on Catholic TV. It is an unusual phenomenon, giving mass to an empty church, but with our virtual services we’ve also become more accessible to others. We’re using social media to keep in contact and connect with people.

“I’m old school but even the old school knows when new school ways can be valuable,” he says, laughing.